


What Happened in Serbia

by mutantleech



Series: Recovery [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Absolutely zero magical healing, Captivity, Caring and endlessly patient John, Extremely graphic descriptions of rape, John's entire life is Sherlock, Long stays in hospitals, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Squick, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Probably more references to bodily fluids than one necessarily needs in a fic, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Seriously this fic is a recovery fic, Sherlock's time in Serbia, There is no Mary, Torture, Very slow recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7844305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutantleech/pseuds/mutantleech
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft doesn't rescue Sherlock from Serbia as quickly as he does in the series.</p><p>Over three months at the hands of Moriarty's men leaves Sherlock completely destroyed. Mycroft brings him home and it's up to John to stay by his side and help him through his long, painful recovery.</p><p>(What is it with me and rape fics?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok seriously, this fic is basically just Recovery!Centric. It has no other plot or point. I like seeing vulnerable!Sherlock and caring!John, what can I say.  
> I tried very hard to keep everybody in character, but with topics like these it's always tricky! I hope I didn't botch it too bad.
> 
> Also, please be warned I will not post any trigger warnings for anything from here on. This fic is *extremely* graphic and explicit. So if violence, rape, sex, injuries, PTSD, etc trigger you, click away now.
> 
> The fic is complete and it's just 30k long, I'll post the other parts in a few hours/days. Also there's an equally short (if not shorter) sequel thingy after that. Almost done with it as well. It's not even a sequel, more like part two? Anyway.
> 
> Oh and not Beta'ed so there're definitely errors around, sorry! (feel free to tell me about them!).

He knew what was going to happen.

He knew it when he heard the screams in the other room. He knew it when the captured MI6 agent started sobbing, apologizing, sounding exhausted, and all the secrets had come spilling out. They made sure Sherlock could hear it as the man doomed them both.

A gun went off once. Immediate, precise, splatter on the wall, no screaming. _Shot to the head._ Well, at least they kept their promise and let the man die in peace.

They'd had no use for him anymore- they now had no use for Sherlock anymore, either.

He stared at his hands. Even hastily bandaged as they were, it was easy to see he was missing two fingers off his right hand, one finger off his left. His feet were even more unpleasant to look at; all his toenails were missing, there was dried blood all over them and they were still very angry and red – this one was recent, only three days ago.

He kept the time by watching the tiny holes near the ceiling, where a bit of light shone through; he'd been here for three weeks now.

It had hardly been his plan to get captured in Serbia, but in the end it worked out as it allowed him to access the group's computer and contact Mycroft through secure channels. And by secure channels he meant that someone was now on route, possibly by foot, to personally deliver a handwritten note across the border. He couldn't know how long it would take for them to get his encrypted coordinates to his brother, but it had been ten days, now. If he was feeling rather optimistic, he estimated a month.

Needless to say, his captors had been less than pleased to find him out of his cell and the security on him had doubled. They did not, however, realize what he had managed to do. As far as they were concerned, they had an MI6 agent on their hands and were going to push him till he sang.

There was no singing from Sherlock's part. At first he tried to deduce his way out of it, even as he was beaten and whipped and drowned. He knew that no matter what they did to him, he could not allow himself to break. There were people back home he was trying to protect and he wasn't going to leave this place without dismantling the very last of Moriarty's web.

He was smart; he was smarter than all of them put together. And he managed to escape his cell enough to send the message, but there was only so much his brain could do against the inescapable reality of four solid walls.

And now, as he looked at his mangled feet, at his mutilated hands, as he came down from hearing the other captured agent's death, he had to accept it was over. The torture, the sessions where they clipped his fingers off piece by piece, where they pulled his nails off one by one, it was all moot point- the other guy had turned them in anyway.

He found himself laughing in a fatalistic sort of way- he was never getting out of here, was he? He was never going home- he was never going to see John again. He closed his eyes as he heard the door to his cell being opened. In the beginning he had even attempted to subdue them when they came in, but now they were smart enough to chain his ankle to the wall.

There was a lot of rapid Serbian being spoken and he could only catch certain key words here and there, but he could tell they were terribly pleased with themselves.

"Wake up, little rat" one of them said, nudging him with his foot.

When he did not stir, the man crouched in front of him and patted his face with just enough force that he'd be roused from his supposed sleep.

Sherlock had no option but to open his eyes, and when he did he found himself staring into the smiling face of the one he'd mentally named the Leader.

The man held a small laptop and was pointing at it enthusiastically "You see here? Your base locations. Your friend give gift to us, so we give gift to he." He told Sherlock in heavily accented English, tapping a thick finger against his forehead- probably where he'd placed the bullet in the other guy's head.

"Sounds lovely" he retorted uninterested. It wasn't that satisfying to mock people who couldn't understand you, so he'd stopped doing it- mostly.

"See? If you cooperated, we be friends." He shrugged "But now? Now you, no value." He was still grinning, and the two other men standing by the door also looked just as pleased.

"Today we celebrate!" he said joyfully, and then he gave Sherlock's mutilated feet a couple of pats that would have looked much like camaraderie in any other situation. It just made the detective hiss and pull his feet towards himself.

They had apparently only come to gloat, for afterwards they left and Sherlock didn't hear a sound from them for another good hour. He wasn't sure whether or not to feel relieved that they did not kill him right away like he had expected.

\--

When he heard from them again, it was their boisterous celebrating outside- it sounded like they were drinking and playing card games. It also sounded like they were knocking things over while drunkenly attempting to arm-wrestle.

The door to his cell opened hours into it, the smell of cigarette smoke being let in and he almost asked for one, himself. He saw four of his captors file in, all chatting animatedly in Serbian. He didn't catch much of what they were saying, but thought they were discussing something trivial, like a game on the telly.

Then their attention eventually moved to him and the one in front, who had a cigarette in his mouth, grinned crookedly. He said something in Serbian that Sherlock didn't catch and then gestured to his friends.

Crouching in front of the detective so that they were pretty much eye to eye, the guy blew out the cigarette smoke onto his face and proceeded to put it out on Sherlock's exposed shoulder. The detective gritted his teeth, breathed out his nose, but said nothing. This was child's play considering what they had already done to him.

"We go to have fun now." The drunk man, young and barely in his twenties, told him in his attempt at English. And Sherlock knew that whatever was going to happen next was going to be very unpleasant.

He should have deduced it, from the boy's eagerness to his dark pupils to his quickened pulse, but he only realized what the plan was when his captor started undoing his trousers.

He closed his eyes as a pang of- what? Despair? Denial? Hit him. Was there anything he could still do? Was he missing something? There was always something. What could he say? Talk his way out of it? His Serbian wasn't good enough, and the men's English wasn't good enough.

Hands reached for the dirty trousers he wore and snapped him out of his thoughts- he immediately bucked and kicked out without thinking about it. His feet protested loudly as the action only made his pain escalate tenfold.

The man stood up with a loud curse and proceeded to kick angrily at him "Son of a bitch!"

Sherlock understood that much in Serbian.

An order was barked to his friends, and soon they were all stepping forward to each hold one of Sherlock's arms and legs. He tried to struggle against them, more out of instinct than logic since he knew he had no chance to overpower even one of them, let alone four. His hands had last been mutilated after his brief escape ten days ago, his left pinky being the most recent loss, but all three stumps were still healing and he knew it was an exercise in masochism to attempt to stop the men with his hands.

He was shoved onto the floor, his head colliding sharply with the concrete as one hand held it there, his cheek scraping on the harsh floor. His arms were pinned behind his back by another pair of hands that cared very little about the open wounds there. And then his hips were being pulled up off the floor so he was propelled onto his knees, his arse up in the air and legs roughly spread apart.

There was absolutely no build up to it, someone simply pulled his trousers down, spit onto their hand and then there was a cock being pushed into him and a groan echoing in the room.

With so many hands holding him down and open, there was not much he could do but take it. Some part of him that still cared whispered very softly that, once, he had hoped his first sexual experience would have been with John- well. Most of him didn't care, not anymore.

This wasn't so bad, he decided after a minute. It hurt, and it burned, but losing his fingers had hurt much more; even the whipping to his back- that had been the worst. This was- it was just- he didn't need to attach a separate meaning to it simply because it was sexual. So what if it was? Pain was pain was pain. And as far as pain went, this didn't rate that high on the scale. He was fine. This was fine.

He ignored the part of him that did attach meaning to it, the part of him that felt violated, that felt humiliated, that felt as though this type of violence might be even worse than the purely physical one. To be tortured and beaten when captured was expected, it was a tale of bravery he could boast about later if he wanted to- but this? This was something he would never speak of again, these weren't the proud wounds of a warrior; this was shame.

Hands now clawed at the welts on his back as a strangled noise of release echoed in the room. He felt a hot, sticky substance being shot inside of him and he started going through all the possible STDs he could have just been infected with when he remembered that it didn't matter- corpses needn't worry about diseases.

"…hold him now-" he heard the young boy tell his friend and there was some shifting around behind him. He heard the zipper of trousers again and braced himself for the pain- it didn't hurt any less the second time around. His body jerked away in reflex, but the strong arms holding him down didn't budge.

He was kept in the same position, his face pressed against the floor and staring at the wall as he watched the shadows of the men who raped him. Liquid ran down his thighs as the second man finished, spurts of his come being shot on Sherlock's back rather than inside him.

The third one hurt more than the first two. He was bigger, rougher, and the detective was already aching by the time he'd started fucking into him mercilessly.

The fourth was the worst simply because of how fucked raw Sherlock already was. One of them, probably the first one, had enough stamina that they jerked off to it the whole time; cum landing on his captive's hair when he was done.

When the man pulled out, Sherlock couldn't help but clench trying to spare himself further pain, hoping none of them wanted to go a second round. But the hands let him go as the men stepped away, laughing merrily among themselves.

"Thank you for your service" one of them said in Serbian, and he heard the sound of someone spitting before he felt a wet glob landing on his back. Then the door shut behind them and Sherlock was alone.

It was never dark inside his cell, there was always an anemic overhead light that cast a sickly orange glow onto the room, and so as he shifted sorely he could see the mess left on the inside of his thighs. They hadn't pulled his trousers back up, so he pulled it all the way off enough that he could use the filthy fabric to wipe himself clean, flinching as it rubbed against his raw entrance.

It came back soiled with the men's semen and a hint of blood, but he wasn't sure whether the blood belonged to the healing marks on his back or not. He cleaned his hair and his face, and then put the dirty trousers back on. He had nothing else to wear and despised the idea of being naked at the moment.

He lay back down on the floor; he didn't have a cot, but he did have a dirty, thin blanket which right now was the single most comforting thing he could ask for. He wrapped it around himself like a cocoon and lay on his side, trying to ignore the persistent pulsing pain coming from his abused backside.

\--

They left him alone for a whole, blissful day. It was just him, his mind palace and memories of John and London.

When one of them did come in the following morning, the man was very matter-of-fact about it.

"Turn" he ordered as he started to undo his trousers.

Sherlock had refused to think about what the four men had done to him. He even tried dismissing the whole thing as a figment of his Moriarty-riddled imagination. But the presence of this new assailant only seemed to confirm what he had feared; he had a new role in the enemy base now.

He pretended not to understand, not to have heard.

The man was not patient. He pulled the blanket off him and grabbed him by the hair "Turn!" he ordered again, very clearly, his face an inch away from Sherlock's.

When the detective did not move, he very efficiently shoved one of his hands down to Sherlock's crotch and grabbed his balls in a very forceful grip that had the detective screaming in pain.

"You obey, or I chop your dick off" his captor told him very matter-of-factly. "We no need it" and then he let go, Sherlock's entire body slumping in relief, even as his lower body still pulsed in pain from the grip.

There was the sound of ripping fabric and Sherlock saw his blanket being destroyed as the man fashioned a strip of cloth from it and used it to tie the detective's hands behind his back. Then Sherlock was turned around and his position was almost identical to the one of the previous day: the man's hand forced his head onto the floor, his legs kept Sherlock's legs apart and the other hand held his hips up as he forcefully entered him. The detective half wondered if this position was one they had learned and honed from experience.

Rhythmic grunts and the sounds of skin slapping against skin were heard for the next couple of minutes as the man mechanically fucked into him. He felt his eyes prickle, but he just blinked it away; it'd be over soon.

And indeed, unlike his prolonged torture sections, this was quick and to the point. The man finished, zipped himself up again and left without as much as a word.

There was an air of efficiency to everything these men did; they were part of Moriarty's web for a reason. Before they had gotten the information they needed, they had tortured with skill and purpose; no playing with the food. They hadn't so much as looked at him. But now? Now he was fair game.

Two more men came during that day, at different times, they used him as the others had done and walked away in much the same way. No one untied his very well secured hands and no one bothered to pull his trousers back up. He was just left to slump to his side and try to catch his breath.

As the day turned into the week, he had already understood.

It was nothing personal. They weren't trying to actively hurt him or torture him anymore; he was simply an unexpected spoil of war. The men would walk in, do their business and walk out, relieving their biological drive like one would walk into the loo to take a piss before getting back to work.

He had fought back on the third time they did it. He had numbed himself during the first two encounters, but on the third he felt he needed to do something to prove to himself that he wasn't cooperating. It got him a bloody nose, fingers shoved into the hollow of where his toenails should be and a kick to his side which had bruised if not broken a couple of ribs. In the end, the man still fucked him, only it had hurt even more.

He didn't try to fight them again.

He asked himself how gay men could possibly enjoy something so painful. But then, he reckoned the average gay man was not getting fucked up to seven times a day by different people.

He even tried to angle it that way; he tried to reason that, to some people – the likes of who would visit Irene Adler – this captivity and submission would have been extremely enjoyable. If people paid money to be treated like this, surely it couldn't be as bad as he was making it out in his head?

There were roughly twenty different men stationed on the base, granted they weren't ever there at the same time, but Sherlock got to know every single one of them. They would come in in turns every couple of hours during the day, and usually there were two to three visits for the ones on night shift.

He didn't have a sleep pattern anymore. He – tried to – sleep when they weren't there, woke up when they fucked him, went back to sleep and rinse and repeat.

The only break in his routine was when he got his meal of the day. Usually it was stale bread and a congealed sort of soup, which he now had to eat handless since they never freed them after the first man had tied them. There was also the rare occasion when he would be pulled out of his cell by two or three men, shoved into a separate room and hosed down with freezing water to lessen his foul smell.

The stench that came off his feet and the stumps on his hands never went away, though; he imagined they were all getting infected. This was something that John would have known; John would have been able to tell him exactly what stage of infection every single one of his wounds was in.

Into the second week, one of the men walked in and nudged him with his foot "Go" he told him, gesturing vaguely to encompass that Sherlock ought to position himself rather than be held down like they'd usually have to do.

His still unbroken will refused to comply, refused to willingly display himself like he was agreeing to it. He looked away and towards the wall, closing his eyes and waiting for the blow that would surely come.

It did. The man stepped on his right foot, his muddy boot digging into Sherlock's tender flesh without mercy. "Go, you fucking shit!" he swore in Serbian. And then he went for the detective's hand, expertly twisting one of his fingers until it gave it and popped, making his prisoner curse loudly.

"I does the others, if you want" he offered, stepping away to give Sherlock a chance to redeem himself.

With his eyes stinging with tears from the pain of his now broken ring finger, Sherlock had a strange, vulnerable inner-dialogue where some part of him asked himself for forgiveness, because he was tired of fighting and he couldn't bring himself to do it anymore.

The man almost went for the next finger, but then Sherlock was shifting and positioning himself like they would have done; his nostrils flaring in anger, his eyes shut in denial. His arse hurt a lot, it never stopped hurting these days, and when the man entered him expertly he couldn't help the groan that escaped him.

\--

That Friday, they were having another of their get-togethers, and the party ended up being brought over to Sherlock's cell. There were eight of them in total, probably the number of men that were at the base at any given moment.

He wasn't even sure if they wanted him, at first; they never came in to fuck him together, save for that first time. But a nudge of someone's foot told him to get into his position- it was now something he did on command.

They didn't address him. They talked to each other in loud drunken voices as they passed him around like a bowl of crisps.

"Wait, wait, wait!" one of them exclaimed excitedly in Serbian as he kneeled in front of Sherlock. The detective didn't know this one that well, had barely ever seen him before, but the man was sneering at him when he attempted to say in English "You bite. I break your jaw." He warned and then he was taking out his cock and presenting it to his captive's mouth.

The smell made Sherlock turn his head away in disgust. He was gritting his teeth hard as he took the pounding from the man behind him; he couldn't bring himself to open his mouth to take the other man in.

But the guy had no interest in his reservations, he pulled Sherlock roughly by the hair and lifted it off the floor so the detective was arching very painfully in one of the most uncomfortable positions he could imagine.

The cock was shoved into his mouth with a distinct lack of finesse as it hit the back of his throat in its first go. The following thrusts were more shallow, but equally erratic. He had no idea what to do, he had never done this before, so he just tried to stay still despite his position and take it as well as he could.

For some reason, he hadn't expected the man to come in his mouth and when he did, Sherlock went into a violent coughing fit, his gag reflex coming to life making him throw up a little bit on the floor.

There was an overwhelming response of laughter and mocking as the men clapped their friend on the back.

After that, they seemed convinced Sherlock wouldn't try to maim them and so it set a precedent for them to finally use his mouth, too. But when the next one pulled on his hair to make him open up, he shook his head violently and said "Wait, wait!" desperately before he could help it.

It was the first time he spoke in over two weeks and it seemed to throw his captors off. He tried to wiggle his hands pointedly from their confinement, attempting to show how impractical his position was when he couldn't hold himself up. "Just- my hands. Let them-" he tried to tell them.

The man nearest the door seemed to understand and he started gesturing and giving orders to the others. Sherlock had no idea what he said, but one of them left the room, only to come back with a chair.

He was dragged toward it, the chain on his right leg long enough to allow it, and placed before it on his knees. Then he was bent forward so that his torso lay on the chair and both his arse and mouth were roughly at crotch level for the men who kneeled around him in a circle. It wasn't as comfortable as it would have been if he'd been able to stand on all fours, especially when the wooden chair dug into his broken ribs, but it was better than the contortionist position he'd been in before.

He stopped counting after a few rounds. He was sure he was bleeding, and it was confirmed when he tasted one of the men after he'd been in his arse; it made him gag and throw up a second time. The proceedings went late into the night, with everyone taking a turn or two. He was exhausted.

All of a sudden, he felt a hot liquid hitting his back. He almost dismissed it as one of them jerking themselves off onto him, but then he realized it was actually urine. Unbidden, the feelings of humiliation he had learned to push down came barreling out again.

None of his assailant's friends seemed very happy with what the man had done. Sherlock heard him being admonished loudly as well as pushed aside roughly. The guy had apparently been too drunk to realize what he was doing.

After the current two men finished with him, he was dragged onto his feet and out of the room down a path he knew well. He was shoved unceremoniously into the shower room and the cold, unforgiving water was thrown on him. Only when the men had let him go so they could spray him, did Sherlock realize he couldn't stand on his own anymore, his legs were too weak.

He fell onto his knees, and tried to enjoy the fact that at least he was getting somewhat cleaned after the whole ordeal.

When they dragged him back to his cell, the chair was gone and so were most of the men. Unfortunately, no one had cleaned the floor. So now the cell smelled like a mixture of the usual semen and blood and the new stench of urine and bile.

He spent the whole night dripping wet, shaking in the unforgiving cold as he had neither his blanket nor his trousers anymore. He wondered what John was doing right now, half a world away. He was probably sitting in his chair by the fire and having a hot cuppa as he read the paper or wrote on his blog.

Sherlock allowed the image to become a scenario in his mind palace and he hid in there, hoping he could borrow some of the scene's warmth for his shaking bones.

\--

The next couple of weeks went by excruciatingly slow and unchanging. Men would come in, fuck him, sometimes his mouth, then they'd walk out. He would eat, and sleep and get fucked again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again.

Some part of him still looked around and rattled off deductions in his head, still tried to think of ways to escape, still tried to think of how to get the upper hand.

He even managed to devise a half decent plan of how to subdue his captor when he was taken to the Shower Room by a single guard. He managed, even in his weakened state, to head-butt the man, get his knife, cut his hands free – finally!!! – put the man's clothes on and carefully, very carefully peer around as he disappeared down the hall.

Truth was: they weren't expecting him to escape, and that confidence only played into Sherlock's favor.

He walked behind one of his captors as the man worked and he wasn't even sparred a glance; the man had no reason to think he was anybody other than one of his associates.

He even made it to the door that would have led to the outside, the place wasn't very big and the activity was mostly kept on the other side of the building, but it was locked and he had to think quickly. There was a keypad by the door and he could deduce the password numbers by the use, but not the order, so he'd have to try his best guess.

He never touched the keypad, for when he was about to, one of his captors spotted him and then there was a lot of yelling and movement.

He had his knife on him and he even managed to nick the man's arm with it before he was quickly subdued and thrown on the ground.

He would never live to forget what happened after that.

He was dragged kicking and screaming back to his cell, the sting of frustration and almosts and what-ifs suffocating him. Leader had walked in with the other men, this time – he wasn't usually at the base – and he looked murderous.

Sherlock was stripped, kicked and beaten till his face was a bloody mess and more ribs joined the two that were already broken. This wasn't like the meticulous torture sessions of over a month ago; this was an emotional response.

He didn't even see where they got it, but suddenly Leader had a piece of wood that looked like the broken leg of a chair and only beat Sherlock with it once before he nudged him onto his back with it.

An order was barked off to the men who had been watching, and then Sherlock's hands were being pinned above his head and his legs were being spread apart. His knees were pressed against his chest, leaving him completely exposed; Leader had never fucked him before, and Sherlock didn't expect him to start now. He knew what was going to happen.

The piece of wood wasn't even round and he felt every one of its corners being shoved into him. It was larger than any of them and it scrapped against his already torn entrance; he couldn't help but scream. It hurt like the slashes on his back had hurt, it hurt like pulling his nails off had hurt. It was pain like he hadn't felt in weeks.

It went on for a while and he could feel as his insides were torn, as he started to bleed onto the intrusion. This wasn't the superficial, minor bleeding that sometimes happened when they fucked him, this was blood that he could actually feel dripping down his legs.

When they were done with him, they clasped his chain back onto his leg and Leader patted his face twice before squeezing his cheeks between thumb and index finger. "You do that again." He dared and then got up, not looking back once as he left with a bloodied piece of wood in his hands, his two subordinates following after him.

This was the night Sherlock cried from the pain. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt deep inside of him and he wanted to claw his insides out so it would stop. Something was wrong, something had teared and he couldn't do it- he couldn't do this anymore.

He glanced to the toilet to his left, and he hated that it was steel, bolted to the floor. At that moment, had it been ceramic, he have broken it with his bare hands and slit his own throat. John would have forgiven him, surely? He would have understood?

No sleep came to him that night, he just shook and cried. He was starting to admit defeat; he was starting to understand that this was his life now. And that maybe, just maybe, no one was coming for him. That, after a month, Mycroft might never have gotten the message.

Morning came and with it his first assailant of the day. He looked at the man with terror- he couldn't possibly- not right now, he just couldn't. He begged in English and he begged in Serbian, but the man just ignored him completely.

He wasn't even one of the bigger ones, nor was he one of the brutal ones. Still, the tears inside Sherlock were made fresh, and when the second man came in a few hours later, the detective was beyond himself with fear.

"Please. I- I just-" he tried to bargain with another unmoved captor, but then he got onto his knees and voluntarily moved closer to the man, even before he was ordered. "I'll use my mouth, please, let me-" his hands were shaking, still free from his stunt yesterday, and he reached for the guy's trousers with urgency. The man almost moved to stop him, but once he realized what Sherlock was doing he allowed it.

He knew he had to make it worth his while. He knew he needed to give them incentive to go for his mouth instead of fucking him. And so he breathed in heavily and tried to picture exactly what would feel good. If this had been John in his mouth, how would he have done it? What would John have said?

Part of him was revolted at even thinking about John in a moment like this, but it was all he had. He used his tongue, he kept his teeth away from the sensitive skin and he sucked avidly. He tried to get all of it in his mouth, choked himself twice trying, but didn't give up and kept going. He bobbed his head rhythmically and soon the man was moaning and rocking his hips, hand grabbing at Sherlock's hair as he pushed the detective flush against him and came down his throat.

Sherlock made the same offer to every single one of them that day, and all but one accepted it. It was a much welcomed break for his arse, but it came at a high cost.

He wasn't sure if it was the fact that they were looking at his face, or if the men simply had dormant kinks. But they were much more brutal with his mouth than they were with his arse. One of them clearly got off on choking him and hearing him gag; he came back for seconds that day.

At night, one of the younger men walked in with a container that held a liquid in it.

Sherlock had named him The Kid – he was the only kind one. Sometimes, when he came for his turn, he'd give Sherlock a cigarette and they would smoke together. Once, when he'd been fucking him, he'd even offered to give the detective a hand-job, but Sherlock had batted his hand away.

This time, The Kid stepped up to him but made no move to fuck his mouth or his arse, instead he said "I clean you" and gestured vaguely towards the detective's back.

Uncertain, but unable to refuse, Sherlock got onto his usual position only to feel the excruciating pouring of alcohol down his back and into his arse. He did believe that they were simply trying to clean him with something anti-septic, but it did not lessen the pain he felt when the alcohol came in contact with his open tears.

He was left trembling as the young man walked away, and the overwhelming smell of alcohol made it impossible for him to sleep.

\--

Going to the bathroom turned into one of the most terrifying moments of his current predicament. The pain was so great that he actually sobbed when he had to do it, and the feeling of humiliation afterwards just made it that much worse.

It got to the point where he was working himself into a full blown panic when he felt the need coming on, and a week after the ordeal with the wooden leg, he couldn't bring himself to eat anymore.

He would greet his captors on his knees, with his mouth open hoping it would tempt them into going for it – he'd gotten better at it, he could tell – and often times he succeeded.

It did not, however, stop the infections that were slowly taking over his entire body. His arse had been abused to the point of never healing back, his hands were swollen and red and he couldn't feel his fingers all that well anymore. His feet were dirty and there were pockets of pus in some of the cavities of his missing nails. He was running a fever that left him delusional and sweating well into the night.

Something in his lower stomach pulsed acutely every second of every day. It was such a constant state of pain that it soon became impossible for him to lift himself off the floor.

Things started to blur and he started forgetting; he knew he had been waiting- for someone? Something? But it was all foggy and unclear. He would wake up naked and cold and he couldn't remember how he had gotten there or where he was.

Sometimes, there was food next to him, but his automatic reaction to it was that of revulsion- he knew he did not eat, but he couldn't remember the reason. He was surrounded by people, but he knew none of them and he couldn't understand a word they said. He let them fuck him because he knew that's what they wanted, but he didn't know why.

He was growing weak and everything felt cold around him, why didn't he have a coat? He should be wearing a coat in the winter. He'd stare at his hand and was horrified to see he was missing fingers- what had he done? His wrist looked thinner and thinner every time he did that. Was he dying? Was he sick? Why were his fingers falling off?

Eventually, there was nothing. It was all muffled inputs and the only things he knew how to do was roll over to sleep and roll back to open his mouth and accept that thing they always put in there.

Sleep, open your mouth, sleep, open your mouth, sleep, open your mouth. As far as he was concerned, that's how life had always been.

\--

They stormed in guns blazing.

All of the men were shot on sight, non-fatal as per orders. It took them all of thirty seconds to subdue the entire base, currently manned by eight people. It was only Mycroft and two other agents, but they were efficient, better armed and had the element of surprise. They had been planning this for months.

The agents went ahead, guns held at ready while they checked the rooms one by one.

He'd never admit it, but his heart was almost at his throat, in fear he had been too late. According to his sources, the original message had been sent over three months ago and he had no idea how long Sherlock had been held captive before that.

"Sir! Found something!" One of the agents shouted and he quickened his pace to follow her into the cell she'd entered.

She was crouching over something, and he heard her gasp as she pulled her hand back "It's alive" she said, clearly surprised.

_It_ , because she had thought it was a corpse. She had thought it was a corpse because that's exactly what it looked like.

There was a naked, skeletal figure lying on the concrete floor, its long hair matted beyond salvation and its hipbones and ribs sticking out from under its stretched, bruised skin. It was lying on its side, facing the wall and it had a collection of half-healed gashes all over its back.

The stench of rotting flesh emanating from its blackened hands and feet was gag-inducing. So was the smell of blood that could be found on the floor and on the walls. On the figure, the blood concentrated mostly in between its legs. The signs of torture and rape were endless and Mycroft could spend hours rattling them off, but he didn't want to- there was only one thing he wanted to know.

He approached the two and nudged the body with his foot. It turned onto its back, and though it didn't move and didn't open its eyes, it opened its mouth. It didn't try to make any sound or form any words, it just stayed there with its mouth hanging open, unmoving.

Not 'it', _he_. Now that they'd turned the body around they could see it was a man.

Beneath the bushy beard and the myriad of bruises was a gaunt face with sunken eyes and pale, chapped lips. It was so beaten and dirty with grime that Mycroft actually took a few seconds to recognize the person for who he was.

He'd found his brother, he'd finally found Sherlock.

Or, more accurately, he'd found what was left of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the feedback and kudos already, lovelies <3  
> As promised, here's the next part. The last one will be posted either today or tomorrow.
> 
> Couple of notes for this chapter:  
> -While I looked up and researched medical healing times etc I was more concerned with making them fit my ideas than being accurate. So it's not perfect.  
> -Characters opinions/views on sexuality/orientation/trauma etc are their own. If they say something dismissive or ignorant, don't assume I agree with them.  
> -There are some parallels with scenes from S3 here =)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!  
> (ps: again, no beta. Also, there might be continuity errors because I re-wrote this too many times)

"Dr. Watson" a voice called out evenly and John felt an odd, prickling sensation in his skin- he knew this voice.

He turned around, holding the patient's chart to his chest like a shield. And when he looked towards the nurses' station he was surprised to see none other than the British government himself, Mycroft Holmes.

Surprise was probably an understatement.

He felt his entire body tense up, his hands tightening on the chart, memories flowing into his mind unbidden- Sherlock's voice as he asked him to _keep your eyes on me, John_. It had been two years, and it felt like it'd been yesterday; it was a wound that had never closed and sometimes he thought it never would. Trust Mycroft to waltz in and twist the knife that bit more, as if John needed a reminder.

He hadn't seen the man since Sherlock's funeral, even though he suspected the inverse was not true, and he had no idea what the government official could possibly want from him.

"Dr. Watson, I would say it is a pleasure to see you, but I do not believe you would return my sentiment" Mycroft inclined his head, leaning onto his umbrella with both hands.

Sentiment, as if the man even had any- Sherlock was dead and-

He shook his head. There was no reason to be angry with Mycroft, and he knew this. The man had done nothing wrong- in fact, if anything, he was the only person in the world who felt John's pain as keenly as he did. The truth was: John simply didn't wish to be reminded.

He breathed in heavily and tried to be cordial "Mycroft" he nodded.

The man stayed silent for a while, looking around as if he was grasping for words, and wasn't that a sight?

"Did you need anything or…?" he prompted, his heart was still racing and he had no idea why. There was literally no news Mycroft could give him that'd be worse than the one he'd gotten two years ago.

"I need you to come with me" the man said, finally, inclining his head. "I require your assistance."

"My assistance?" John looked befuddled as he chuckled sarcastically, what could he possibly have to offer the most powerful man in England?

"Yes, your assistance, Dr. Watson, in a matter of utmost importance. Now if you'd please accompany me, I have a car waiting ou-"

John let out a disbelieving huff again. He tried to ignore the memories of when Sherlock did the exact same thing- order him around like he couldn't get his own damn coffee, like he couldn't text from his own damn phone, like he expected John to do everything for him, like-

"You'll have to be a bit more specific. As you can see," he gestured to their surroundings "I am at work, I have patients. I-"

"Sherlock's alive."

The floor disappeared from under John's feet.

He felt his vision tunnel and his stomach lurch as he swayed, reaching out to hold onto something so he wouldn't pass out. His heart felt like he'd had just injected it with fatal doses of adrenaline and he feared the poor thing was going to give out under the stress.

"What?" he asked when he finally managed to speak again. He was holding onto the check-in counter for dear life as he didn't trust himself not to fall otherwise. "What did you- what are- what?"

"I trust this is sufficient information for now? I can brief you about the details on the car ride over. We're going outside of London, I'm afraid" Mycroft said with the same level tone as when they had first met.

John didn't even think, he just placed the chart on top of the nearest surface and followed Mycroft Holmes like a drowning man in search of air.

He heard a faint "Dr. Watson?" behind him and he managed to shout back "Family emergency!" before he disappeared through the surgery's doors.

\--

They hadn't been in the car for a full second and already John was demanding answers. Mycroft just put a hand up to silence him and then reached for glasses in the compartment near his door, poured them both a decent amount of scotch and nodded toward it "You'll be needing that, I imagine."

John shot the whole thing back in one go and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ignoring the look of distaste on the other man's face.

"Well??" he demanded again, and this time Mycroft nodded, taking a sip of his drink.

"Sherlock faked his death" he told him in a very matter-of-fact way, as though John ought to know it already.

But the doctor shook his head, the alcohol loosening him up a bit. "No. No- he- I saw it. I checked his pulse. I saw it."

The explanation that followed was as ridiculous and absurd as any of Sherlock's deductions, and he believed every word of it. Part of him was still guarded, was still fighting, was still shouting that he'd checked his pulse, that he needed to see Sherlock with his own eyes-

"I figured as much" Mycroft said, seemingly a response to his unspoken words. And then a tablet was being thrust into John's hands. "It's a live feed."

The video on the tablet was of a room- a hospital room. There was an extremely gaunt man lying on a bed, heavily bandaged hands sitting atop the covers while the rest of him was hidden beneath them. He was bald, recently shaven, and a variety of bruises decorated his sunken face- it looked like a corpse someone had dug out of a fresh grave.

The cheekbones, partially hidden by a respirator, were more pronounced than they had ever been. The shape of the nose, of the lips, it was unmistakable- it was Sherlock.

His heart was beating so fast he thought he might actually pass out this time around, and Mycroft had to take the tablet away from him. He kept staring at his own lap where it had been, dumbfounded and trying to control the myriad of emotions running through him at the news

"What- I don't- what happened to him? He looks-" he tried to get the words out, but couldn't do it.

"I lost contact with him on his final mission; he was going into Serbia to dismantle the last of Moriarty's web." Mycroft started, and this time even he was unable – or unwilling – to keep eye contact. He was looking at the glass in his hands as he spoke "He managed to send us the coordinate for the base, but it took us three months to receive and act upon the information."

John's heart constricted upon hearing it and the image of the broken man on the bed came back to the forefront of his mind.

"What you see is the result of the Serbians' hospitality." Mycroft went on, gesturing to the tablet. "He has been back in England for a week, now. I was waiting for him to stabilize before attempting to contact you." That the possibility of Sherlock dying on the table had been very real went unspoken. "I'm afraid he sustained a rather extensive list of injuries- some of which are not of the physical variety." His voice sounded contrite again and John wanted to sob in frustration at the information.

"I do not know what will become of my brother once he regains conscience, which is why I'm requesting your help with this issue. I believe a familiar face ought to… facilitate matters." He looked away and took a sip of his nearly untouched scotch. "I will of course, compensate you for your time away-"

"I don't care. I'll do it." John said quickly, because he'd sooner turn into a beggar on the streets than turn his back on Sherlock Holmes and if that wasn't the most absolute of truths, his name was not John Watson.

\--

The hospital – private facility? – was an enormous estate just outside London. It sat surrounded by carefully manicured gardens, beyond which lay vast stretches of green fields as far as the eye could see. John felt as though he had been transported to the early 1800s; surely the building was that old, if not older.

The room Sherlock was being kept in was spacious and bright like he had never seen a hospital room before. The bed sat in the center of the right wall, an array of monitors gathered around, beeping rhythmically in a way that was rather soothing- Sherlock Holmes had a beating heart. A couch sat in the one of the corners, while a comfy chair was stood near the bed itself. Large windows gave a breath-taking view of the outside and just under them there was a simple wooden table with a couple of wooden chairs- for dining, perhaps.

There was nothing else in the room but empty space, it had no telly like usual hospital rooms did, nor was it overly decorated. It looked like an empty ballroom; the walls painted in a warm, inviting yellow and curtains white and tasteful were the only thing on them aside from the couple of paintings of landscapes.

Mycroft said something about needing to talk to doctors, but John wasn't listening. He was slowly approaching the bed like he half expected Sherlock to jump up at him when he reached it. But the detective lay as still as death- no, terrible comparison- still in sleep, there better.

His heart was protesting the amount of stress John was putting it under, but he couldn't help the overwhelming stream of _ReliefPainSorrowHappinessDisbeliefFear_ that assaulted him. He reached out, hand shaking, to touch the unconscious figure and he felt his throat constrict when he made contact with Sherlock's skin. God, it felt like paper- dry and thin and fragile. He looked so awful, he looked-

When Mycroft came back in, John pretended he hadn't been crying; Mycroft pretended he hadn't seen it.

"I've made arrangements for your commute, you may remain in London or make use of a flat twenty minutes off and I've assigned a driver-" the man went on, but John ignored him. He wasn't leaving this hospital room. He wasn't leaving this hospital period, unless it was with Sherlock by his side. He hoped Mycroft hadn't paid rent in advance.

That first day, they both sat together for hours in almost complete silence. He wondered if there were no world-changing catastrophes waiting for Mycroft back in London, but he didn't care enough to ask.

At some point, one of the man's minions had arrived with a suitcase full of John's things – he didn't bother asking about that either – and a bag of takeout – John hadn't even known Mycroft ate takeout.

They had dinner together and it was not as bad as he had thought it'd be. It went by in companionable silence and once again, John could admit that Mycroft's pain over his brother most likely matched his own and that the knowledge was comforting.

During the first week, Sherlock didn't even shift; he was still hooked up to the respirator and being kept under heavy sedation. John became intimately acquainted with the room's couch and had created a nest of sorts for himself there. Some days Mycroft would come by and they would eat dinner or have tea, then the man would disappear to speak with the doctors – he didn't volunteer any information about the extent or nature of Sherlock's injuries, and John didn't ask. He knew Mycroft wasn't going to tell him, and he was afraid to examine the reason too closely.

When the nurse came to change Sherlock's bandages and presumably take care of his other needs, John was politely invited to fuck off. During those times, he'd usually take a walk around the hospital grounds, never straying more than a few meters from the entrance. He was starting to get to know most of the staff's faces even if he couldn't bring himself to spend enough time outside Sherlock's room to actually strike up a conversation with any of them.

He spent most of his day reading and doing the crosswords on the paper. Sometimes he'd put his chair by the window so he could enjoy the sunny skies and nature – one would think they had left England, the weather was so good these days.

The respirator came off as Sherlock's lungs fought off their infection and became strong enough to breathe on their own. A much less obtrusive nasal cannula replaced it and each little victory filled John with hope.

When Sherlock woke up the first time, at night, it almost gave John a heart attack. He had simultaneously jumped off his chair, ran to the bed and tried to page the nurse all the while holding his flatmate's hand and searching his face for any signs of- anything, really.

But Sherlock was way too drugged, way too confused to do or say anything. It was clear from his glossed over eyes that, yes he was awake, but saying he was aware or conscious would have been a bit of a stretch. His eyes kept rolling back into his head, like he was desperately being pulled back into sleep, and for some reason his mouth was open even though he wasn't making any sound.

"I think he's thirsty" John told the nurse, desperate to help in any way, but the woman just looked at him and shook her head.

Each time Sherlock woke up, John's reaction was essentially the same, until he became accustomed to it and his desperation turned into a sort of resigned acceptance. He was calmer in calling the nurse and staying out of their way as they saw to the detective's needs. But Sherlock never spoke, never acknowledged them; he just opened his mouth and was out again after a couple of minutes.

 "Why does he keep doing that?" John asked out loud once when Mycroft's visit coincided with Sherlock waking up.

The government official had a very likely theory as to why his brother did it, but he did not think Sherlock would appreciate him sharing it with the doctor. Besides, being a doctor meant John was most likely jumping to the conclusion of brain damage, and perhaps it was kinder to let him think that was the case.

In an attempt to get some information- any information on Sherlock's case, John tried to ask the doctor in charge, once, why they were feeding Sherlock through an IV rather than the less damaging feeding tube. He knew very well that the former was used in cases where that was damage to the digestive track. The doctor had simply told him it was the best approach for this case, and did not elaborate further.

He actually grew to understand Sherlock much more during these episodes of intense curiosity. He finally understood what it was like to _need_ to gather data, to _need_ to form hypothesis, to _need_ to prove or disproof his theories. God, he was cracking.

But he learned to let it go- Sherlock had been tortured and starved, and that was that. Finding out exactly what the torture had entailed would only serve to soothe John's curiosity. It wasn't going to undo the damage and it wasn't going to help the detective.

\--

John hated few things more than feeling helpless. It always reminded him of standing there uselessly with a phone in his hand while Sherlock jumped to his death right before his eyes.

It was late at night; John was sat in his comfy armchair reading a medical journal when stirring from the bed made him look up.

Sherlock didn't really open his eyes so he was probably just moving in his sleep. It still drew John's attention every time, no matter how insignificant a movement his friend made. The stirring persisted for longer than usual, though. And then, still with his eyes closed, the detective started coughing.

It was just little huffs at first, but then his eyes opened half way and the coughs grew more violent. The way he moved made it clear he was attempting to sit up, to lift his torso, but he wasn't strong enough for that.

At once, John got up from his seat, journal forgotten, and put his hand carefully behind his friend's back, trying to prop him up.

Sherlock had his eyes shut tightly as he coughed, as though the movement caused him pain. Then the coughs grew deeper and less throaty, and the next thing John knew the detective was throwing up all over himself.

"Ok, ok! To the side, now, come on." He urged immediately, trying to move his friend enough that the worst of the vomiting landed on the floor.

The younger man continued heaving; subdued moans accompanying each spasm. But there was little more than bile coming up and soon it was just dry heaving that kept him hunched over the side of the bed.

"There you go, you're alright now. You're ok. I got you." John said, almost without realizing, as he soothingly pet his friend's back.

When Sherlock seemed to be done, John slowly leaned him back onto his pillows, but not before propping the bed up. The last thing he wanted was for the younger man to choke on his own vomit if he started again.

Efficiently, he removed the soiled blanket from the bed and dropped it on the floor, right onto the puddle of sick that was there. Then, he went into the bathroom, soaked a clean towel with warm water and came back to a Sherlock that still had his eyes tightly shut and an expression of pain on his face.

"Alright, come here. I got you, ok? You're alright." he kept saying as he wiped his friend's mouth and neck gently. "There we go, that's better now."

He felt as Sherlock trembled under his hands and he knew that the detective was cold. He was only wearing a hospital gown and- god, he was thin. He was so, so thin.

Shaking his head, John focused and went to the cabinet where they kept clean sheets and procured a new set, including a thick, cozy blanket.

He covered Sherlock with one at a time. And almost immediately the detective curled up on his side, bunching the blanket in his hands as he drew it up to his neck like a cocoon. The expression of pain on his face, however, didn't go away.

John pressed the button that'd call the nurse, as he ought to have done before, and tried to soothe his friend while they waited. But Sherlock started to moan, very softly at first, but consistently. John checked the levels of morphine and saw they were only half way on the marker.

When the nurse walked in, he quickly explained what happened, and the woman made her way inside hastily.

"You need to up his morphine. He's in a lot of pain. What's his dosage right now?" John demanded, feeling like a doctor that had no staff.

Sherlock was still moaning, but the nurse simply looked up at John and then continued to ignore him as she moved the detective around.

When she pulled him by his shoulder so he'd lie on his back again, the blankets went with him and John could see the mattress underneath. There was a fist-sized splotch of blood on the sheets.

"He's bleeding- he's bleeding, what's-" he even made a motion to pull the blankets off entirely, but the woman actually physically intervened and held his hand away.

"Dr. Watson, I need you to step outside, now." She ordered in a very steady voice, even as she paged someone.

Footsteps were heard outside and then one of Sherlock's doctors walked in hurriedly. John was, again, ordered to leave. And this time, the doctor's expression made it clear he'd be bodily removed by security if he did not comply.

Made to wait outside, John slid helplessly onto the floor. He hid his face in his arms and pulled at his hair in frustration. His medical degree had never felt more useless.

\--

When the doctor came out, she didn't look terribly disheveled.

John immediately rose to his feet in alarm, but the woman's expression told him all he needed to know.

"He's perfectly fine. It was just an expected side effect of one of his antibiotics. He might continue to get nauseous, in which case you can call a nurse in again." She said in a very relaxed voice, like nothing was the matter.

"But the blood-"

She shook her head softly "He pulled on some stitches, that's all. There's nothing to worry about." She assured, even as she refused to elaborate. These people were clearly under strict orders to not discuss Sherlock's case. "I did up his morphine a bit for now, but if he continues to show signs of distress, please let the nurse know." Smiling, but clearly putting an end to the conversation, she nodded to him and walked off.

That night, John refused to sleep on his couch. He spent the whole night crumpled on his armchair and paranoid about every noise and movement Sherlock made. But the detective wasn't moaning anymore and his eyes weren't shut tightly anymore either. He'd gone back to lying on his side, and held the new warm blanket around himself in the same way he'd done before.

"You'll be the death of me, won't you?" John sighed, dropping his head onto the mattress before him.

\--

The first time Sherlock spoke, John wasn't in the room.

He'd woken up while one of the nurses was with him, changing the bandages on his back. He was completely still and pliant under her touch, but once she realized he was awake she tried offering a reassuring smile and nodding.

"Just going to clean you up, ok?" she said.

And then all hell broke loose.

He was shaking his head violently, trying to push her away with his bandaged hands, "No. No. No. Don't!" he begged, because every time they doused him with alcohol he wanted to peel off his own skin. He was already infected beyond help, he didn't need the torture to go with it.

"Mr. Holmes, calm down" she tried to soothe him by stepping away and giving him space "You're fine, you're alright. I'm just going to get you cleaned, that's all."

"No. No, there's- no. Please" sometimes he could reason with them, but they weren't listening-

She had to wait for him to go back to sleep to continue, because he wouldn't let her near him. Fortunately, it did not take very long and she was finished a half hour later, leaving to allow Dr. Watson back in.

"He spoke some this time" she told him with a smile "He was a bit agitated, but he's getting better"

He wanted to corner her and ask her all the details, but she was gone before he could get his voice back.

\--

Sherlock _was_ getting better, though. One day, when he woke up, he blinked several times and it looked as though he was trying to focus- there was awareness in his eyes that John hadn't seen yet.

The man's tongue peeked out to lick at his dry lips and he seemed to frown the tiniest bit. "Am I-" he started to ask, and his voice was very hoarse from disuse "Am I in England?" he asked, finally and John had never heard a sound so beautiful in his entire life.

"Yes, yes, Sherlock. Yes, you're home. You're in England" he told his flatmate as he grasped his hand with utmost joy.

Slowly, but in a deliberate movement, Sherlock turned to look at him. And there was recognition in his eyes "John?" he asked softly, because it couldn't be true- John couldn't actually be there. This was a dream, wasn't it?

"Yes, it's me. I'm right here" John was so emotional he thought he was going to start crying, but he was also smiling so wide it hurt as he stroked his fingers over the  naked skin of Sherlock's extremely thin wrist.

"John?" he asked again and this time, his eyes were closed.

"Yes, yes it's me. You're home. You're safe."

Sherlock, still with his eyes closed, just nodded very softly and then he was back asleep.

\--

Now that he was waking up to show signs of awareness, he could be spoken to and somewhat reasoned with.

His past drug abuse meant he had a very high tolerance to narcotics, and so his morphine dosage was through the roof. It was the main reason why he was still so out of it; he was essentially high as a kite twenty four seven.

The staff often had to explain to him, again and again, that he was in England, in a hospital, and that Mycroft had brought him home, but he would ask it almost every time he opened his eyes.

Sometimes he'd look at John and he'd frown like he was trying to deduce him and he'd ask softly, "John?" again and again, as often as he asked about being home.

The nurses also tried to get him to eat something, as it would do wonders for his recovery if he could get some of his weight back. But when they first tried offering him food, he shook his head very emphatically and wouldn't hear of it.

Defeated, the doctor in charge had him transition to a nasal feeding tube, which was now strapped onto his face.

He was made to do some very simple physio from his bed, mainly someone would ask him to push against their hand with his feet, or hold them up off the bed without letting them fall. It did, eventually, lead to him being ok'ed to try and walk for the first time.

John wasn't there either, when it happened. And later Sherlock would very much appreciate the fact.

The nurse had come in like she usually did, John had been ushered out and she began changing the bandages on his hands, his feet, his back. Then she asked him if he wanted to try and walk to the bathroom- it was a step towards autonomy that most patients anticipated eagerly.

He had swallowed dryly at the question, his mind battling between the two evils, but had nodded in the end.

His broken ribs and the surgery incision on his stomach made the whole thing a very big challenge. Most of his weight was shared between him and the woman as he leaned heavily on her so he could walk, but walk he did and he couldn't help but feel accomplished at having managed such a mundane task.

When they did reach the bathroom, however, things changed rather drastically. The memories of the painful, painful, painful trips to the toilet back in Serbia were very fresh in his head and he shut his eyes forcefully as he tried to chase them away. But it was fear like he couldn't explain, irrational, overwhelming, of the same kind that made him refuse the food he'd been offered.

He was too drugged up on painkillers, he wasn't sure how much he had healed, he wasn't sure he'd ever heal completely, he had no idea how much damage had been done to his insides- if he went to the bathroom, he could make it worse, and then-

Irrational as it may have been, the thoughts took complete control of him and he started hyperventilating and gripping the woman's shoulders forcefully.

"I can't breathe" he told her at the threshold, unable to step into the bathroom. "I- I can't breathe- I can't- I- I'm going to die-"

Her response was immediate and she reached for her stethoscope with her one free hand.

"Mr. Holmes, I need you to lean on the door frame, can you do that for me?" she asked as she already pushed him towards it.

She checked his lungs, his airways and moved him this or that way, but there was nothing wrong and yet he was still gasping wildly for air. It was his eyes, his terror-filled eyes that gave it away and she put a hand on his shoulder comfortingly and tried to get him to look at her.

"You're having a panic attack, you're not going to die." She told him very clearly, and then gestured to her own chest, before she breathed in slowly "You're going to breathe with me, ok? We're going to count together." And she stood there with him until he calmed down after twenty three long inhales-and-exhales.

"Do you want to go back to your bed?" she asked then and he just nodded frantically, unable to look her in the eye as he tried to bite down on his shame. He wouldn't attempt it again for another full week.

\--

Unrelenting, the nurses brought him food every single day, and every single day John had to watch as he shook his head and turned away as though looking at ghosts only he could see.

One day, the battleground was a bowl of green jelly and John decided to stop being such a coward and intervene. He had a hunch why Sherlock kept turning the food away, and part of the reason he didn't voice it was in fear that he was wrong and would be mocked – by whom?? – for his assumptions.

"It's- it's not poisoned or anything" he said, finally, looking completely unsure of himself since he had no idea if he had guessed right.

He took the spoon, scooped some jelly out of the bowl and extremely awkwardly brought it to his own mouth and gestured to himself after he'd eaten it, as though to say _See? I'm not dead_.

That was the first time since Sherlock first woke up three weeks ago that the detective smiled, a hint of amusement in his eyes- it was so aware, so deliberate, so _Sherlock_ that John's heart almost leapt from his chest.

Sherlock didn't eat the jelly that day, but later that week he managed a successful trip to the bathroom. And high as he was on his victory, when they brought him soup the following day, it hadn't seemed as daunting.

He sat up with John's help as it was still very uncomfortable for him to do so, and the doctor also re-arranged the pillows on the bed after he'd set it almost upright.

He could see John positively biting down on his urge to volunteer to help him with the food, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

Still, the three fingers of his right hand were free, even if the rest of his hand was covered in bandages, and he trusted that they were steady enough to hold a spoon. The trembling had nothing to do with physical injuries and everything to do with nerves.

He ate a spoonful of the soup and the look of pride and happiness on John's face was enough motivation for him to keep going.

"Is it good?" his friend asked.

He thought for a moment and then shook his head, but he was smiling- he was trying to be funny, see?

John's choked laugh was priceless and he could see the sparkle of moisture gathering in the man's eyes. It was worth it.

\--

On those days, when Sherlock showed signs of awareness, John would help him onto a wheelchair and would roll him out to the balcony. It took a lot of maneuvering, but the detective was very cooperative; he followed instructions in a way that spoke of severe conditioning.

Most of the time, Sherlock wasn't able to communicate it when he got cold, or when he wanted to go back inside, or when he was in pain. So John had to watch closely for any cue of discomfort. Usually, he'd bundle him up pretty heavily before they went outside; the detective had no body fat to speak of, and he was constantly shivering.

Mycroft had brought him a very warm and cozy dressing gown, and John would always make sure to dress him in it, while also laying a couple of blankets over his lap for good measure.

Sherlock never said anything, but John liked to think the younger man appreciated the scenery. He'd talk to him, tell him about the book he was reading or would just point out the trees in the garden or the new flowers that had come in. He'd wheel him up and down the small balcony before settling down beside him, and together they would stay there for at least a half hour.

It wasn't always terrific though. Sometimes the weather was too chilly for John to want to risk going outside. Sometimes Sherlock would sleep the whole day away. Sometimes it was just- hard.

On one particularly sunny afternoon, the detective seemed more agitated than usual. He kept shifting on his chair and licking his lips over and over. When John noticed and asked him if he was thirsty, Sherlock turned his head to look at him very slowly and nodded.

The doctor couldn't help but smile at it; it wasn't very common that he'd get any kind of response from his friend.

But all it took was the time for him to go inside the room to fetch a glass of water for things to turn sour. When he returned, it was to find Sherlock in the middle of a panic attack. He nearly dropped the glass in his haste to get to the man.

He had to sit with him for ten minutes, trying to calm him back down and get his breathing back on track. "I'm sorry I left. I just went to get your water, is all. You're alright now, ok? I'm sorry."

It was hard to gauge whether Sherlock accepted or even understood his apology. But it took four days after that for the detective to agree to go out to the balcony again. John made a point to bring a water bottle out with them from then on.

\--

The feeding tube wouldn't come off for another couple of weeks, still. Sherlock's intake of food was consistent, but he didn't manage even a fraction of the calories he needed at the moment. He had been in the hospital for six weeks, now, and he no longer looked like a skeleton even if he was still much too thin for his frame.

"John?" he asked one day, and the doctor looked up from his crosswords.

"Yes?"

"How- how did I get here?"

John seemed to stop and consider the question carefully. It was the first time Sherlock attempted anything even remotely resembling a conversation. Trust the detective to jump straight into the hard questions.

He cleared his throat "Well, ahm, you were on a mission. In Serbia-"

"I know." The detective interrupted, because he remembered Serbia vividly. It was England he had started to forget about.

John swallowed "Oh. Ahm, well, Mycroft- he got a message and he went in. He went there with a team, I think. And they brought you home."

That really didn't answer much of his question, but then he supposed John wouldn't know. John didn't know about his mission, about Moriarty, about anything- John thought he was dead- how was John even here? He frowned.

"I'm not dead." He told his friend all of a sudden, and John had the decency not to look at him like he was an idiot "I didn't die- I- it was a plan, but we couldn't tell you- I had to- I was-" his mind was very foggy, but he knew it was important that John knew the truth, now. Now that his mission was over- was it over?

"I know. I know, Mycroft told me. He told me about Moriarty's web, and about the snipers, and everything." John said and his hands were closed into fists. He looked like he was going to say something else, but then decided not to.

There was a beat of silence and then Sherlock shifted a bit "Where is he?"

"Who? Mycroft?"

He nodded.

"He was here a couple of days ago, remember? He comes to check in on you once in a while." John explained "I can text him if you want?"

Mycroft… yes. He had seen him, hadn't he? He had been here. He nodded to John's question because he needed to know about the mission, how it had ended, if it had ended, if they were successful.

His brother was there later in the evening, and it was like seeing him for the first time in months.

"I see you are rather aware, brother mine. Welcome back" the man said, balancing on his umbrella, but Sherlock could read his emotions like a book. "Doctor Watson, I believe you would find fresh air to be quite invigorating this evening, I'm informed the staff has just brewed some tea" he said to John, but his eyes never left his brother.

John was about to protest that he had no interest in fresh air or tea when he realized he was being politely asked to get out. Sighing, he hesitated for a couple of seconds, but just got up from his chair and nodded to the both of them before leaving the room. Might as well take a walk.

\--

"What did you tell John?" was the first question out of Sherlock's mouth once they were alone.

Mycroft made a show of walking around the room before he sat in one of the wooden chairs, his umbrella resting against the table.

"Not much" he answered simply; he knew Sherlock wasn't asking about Moriarty. "I told him that you were away in Serbia, and why. Anything he may know about your time there he has extrapolated from seeing your current physical state. I did not give him access to your medical files."

That was the closest Mycroft would ever come to expressing his brotherly love, and the words soothed Sherlock like nothing else. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, nodding.

"And the mission?" he asked, and subconsciously noted the priority of his questions- John first, always first.

At that Mycroft got up and reached into his suit, bringing out a large yellow envelope which he then held out for his brother to get "I was holding onto this until you were aware enough to… appreciate it."

Carefully, Sherlock accepted the envelope and slowly opened it with the lack of finesse his fingers allowed.

Inside there were twenty-one pictures of twenty-one corpses, each mangled in varying degrees of creativity.

"A ground team was… interviewing the members of the group for information. I was unable to see to the proceedings in person, but I made sure to assist with the… interrogation methods remotely." His eyes right now were the reason why Moriarty had dubbed Mycroft the Iceman. He went on "Unfortunately, after information was acquired, rebel forces bombed the building they were being kept in and the men were lost to the explosion. Interpol has already been informed, of course."

"Of course" Sherlock echoed, looking at the pictures again and again. The corpses had obviously not been in an explosion of any kind.

"The mission was a success, the information found on the base was the last piece of our puzzle and we're officially closing the file on Moriarty." He tapped at the table, having sat down again. "Your name has also been cleared back in London, and you will be welcomed back into your previous position should you wish to do so."

Sherlock's lips twitched; Mycroft was nothing if not thorough.

He nodded at all the information and still kept looking at the pictures in his hands. He was almost sad to see The Kid among the bodies.

"I believe I shall go fetch Doctor Watson now, then; he starts brooding rather glaringly when he's made to wait outside." His brother said as he got up and grabbed his umbrella, heading for the door.

He stopped just before opening it and said "If you- need anything…" the offer was left open, but it was another clear gesture of brotherly love, and Sherlock had the mind to nod in acknowledgement even if he couldn't bring himself to say thank you. "You might want to put those away." Mycroft gestured to the envelope, and then left the room.

\--

It was a milestone in his recovery, talking to Mycroft. Sherlock was finally talking, being – a somewhat subdued version of – himself and he was making progress in quick strides.

His wounds were healing, his head was clearer and he felt himself grow stronger.

His bandages came off a few days later, no longer needed aside from the ones on his torso. It was the first time John saw his feet and his hands properly and that night, when he thought Sherlock was asleep, he had locked himself in the bathroom and cried like he hadn't since Sherlock had died.

The detective didn't mention hearing it, and John didn't mention his missing fingers; the unspoken words hung between them like a cross that neither wanted to carry, and it only grew in size and weight as the days went by.

\--

John helped him off his bed the first time he decided to walk outside of his room – balcony trips notwithstanding. He held onto the army doctor and onto the IV stand as he slowly put one foot in front of the other until they made it past the door.

There were more people roaming the halls of the hospital than Sherlock had initially expected, and though he tried to hide it the best he could, John recognized his erratic breathing pattern and panicked looks almost instantly.

It wasn't that he had suddenly become afraid of crowds, or people. But something about being out in the open made him feel like a target. He was weak and wounded and slow and if any friend of the twenty one Serbian deceased wanted to track him down and have their revenge, it'd only be too easy and-

"Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me" John's steady soldier voice snapped him out of his thoughts "What are you thinking about? You know- you know we're at the hospital, right?" he asked with that uncertain tone of his "Mycroft's got people twenty-four seven in this place. You're- there's nothing to worry about, nothing is going to happen." _I wouldn't let it_ , he didn't say.

"I know that" Sherlock said, as though it was obvious, but he still looked around with suspicion. "I'm- I should go back to my room." He said then, and John didn't argue.

When they got back, he helped Sherlock back into his bed and for a moment their hands brushed and the unspoken words screamed between them again.

The silence that filled the room after that was rather uncomfortable.

\--

Later they found out that, in fact, the entire hospital was MI6. The facility belonged to the Secret Intelligence Service and catered exclusively to agents returned from missions requiring long term care. Mycroft had casually offered the information up when John let it slip Sherlock might not be feeling terribly safe.

That same week, Mycroft brought Cluedo of all things and John only wished he had popcorn to watch the two brothers play, it was so amusing.

He had also brought puzzles, actual picture puzzles, and Sherlock had taken to putting them all together as quickly as he could. It made for John sitting and staring at him for hours at a time, staring at his right hand with the three fingers and his left hand with the four fingers and a ring finger that did not move.

"How have things been? Since I-" _died?_ "left?" Sherlock asked one afternoon, while he was putting a picture of the Eiffel tower together. "How's Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade?" it was the first time since asking about Mycroft and the mission, that the detective attempted a proper conversation again.

John had to look away, he felt guilty enough that he had disappeared on Mrs. Hudson and refused to see Lestrade after Sherlock's death. He hadn't spoken to them in years. It was simply too hard to face them, to set foot in Baker Street or the Yard.

"Things- I- well. I've-" broken down entirely without you, I let myself go and I couldn't find a way out, the world lost its color and life lost its meaning and there were some days I couldn't get myself out of bed "been working. I ahm, got a job at another surgery and, ahm, yeah."

"Oh?" Sherlock spared him a glance at the underwhelming account.

"I haven't, ahm, kept in touch with Lestrade much, you know how it is- he's a copper and all." He put his hand awkwardly at the back of his neck "Haven't talked much to Mrs. Hudson, either. I just- time and-"

"What you mean you haven't talked to Mrs. Hudson much? She's our landlady" _Our_. Sherlock pointed out obviously, as though he was correcting someone's faulty deduction.

John hesitated and looked away "I- well, I'm not- I'm not at Baker Street anymore" his voice was very soft, like he didn't want to admit it.

At that, Sherlock looked up, part confused and part alarmed. "Not at Baker Street anymore? What are you talking about, not at Baker Street anymore?"

For a moment, John wasn't going to answer that. He was just going to brush it off and say half-truths like he had been doing so far, but something inside of him was screaming that he had dreamed of this – of having a chance to tell Sherlock everything he'd wanted before the man died – and now that he'd been granted this miracle he was walking away because he was too much of a coward?

He closed his eyes shut with force and tightened his hands into fists. Trying to put two years' worth of misery into spoken language was a ridiculously difficult task.

"When- you died, I- I begged you for a miracle. I asked you to… stop being dead. Because I- when you were gone-" he stopped because his voice was starting to waver and he wanted to make it through his whole speech "I couldn't go back to our flat. I couldn't live there without you because- it just- was too hard."

Sherlock had stopped working on his puzzle entirely and was looking at John with a quiet sort of interest.

"I just- you know. You know I'm not good at this." He was looking anywhere but at Sherlock's face because he was a bloody coward. "I was miserable and I- my therapist tried to tell me- tried to get me to say it. I- the things I would have said to you and I- I couldn't, I-" He spared the detective a quick glance and surely enough, the man's piercing blue eyes were still staring straight at him. "What I'm trying to say is- before, I wanted to- I should have said it, I just-"

Convinced that John was never going to get around to it, Sherlock felt his lips twitch a bit and said "I know."

John's head snapped up in alarm "You know? You knew-? Before?"

Sherlock's smile was tentative, but still there "I do, too."

The doctor was staring at him in puzzlement, but he still looked slightly exasperated. He looked around the room, as though still searching for words, as though gathering his courage again. He wiped his hands on his trousers and closed his fingers into a determined fist. It was now or never, he didn't want there to be any ambiguity to what he was saying.

"I- you do know- I mean, I meant it- I meant it romantically?" he clarified, clearing his throat; his head almost exploding from the effort of talking about his emotions

Sherlock eyed him with an almost child-like curiosity, silent. He looked at him for a good minute without saying anything, and John almost had to get up and leave because of how uncomfortable the whole situation was making him.

Finally, Sherlock looked away and stared out the window instead. "I didn't."

John drew in a long breath, closing his eyes and trying to think of what to do next. His hands were clenched over his lap and he begged anyone who was listening to not have let him just ruin everything.

"Ok, well, that's ahm- now you-" he cleared his throat "now you know. But, I don't- you don't have to- I-"

"Shut up, John, you're rambling." Sherlock snapped, but there was no bite to it. He closed his eyes as well, just for a moment, before letting out a breath and looking down at his hands. "I had. Since the pool – I knew then." He explained "What I felt. I knew then that it wasn't just- that it was more than just friendship, for me."

John temporarily looked like a fish, opening his mouth to say something and closing it again over and over "Oh. I- that's, then, great- it's good. That's good." He cleared his throat and felt his heart attempt to leave his chest via his mouth. "Alright. Ok. Then. Yes."

They were both smiling at each other a bit ridiculously, and it felt like giggling at a crime scene all over again.

A nurse walked in at that moment, not knocking, never knocking, and bringing a tray of medical supplies with her. "How are you feeling today, Mr. Holmes?" she greeted cordially as she placed her tray on the side table with efficiency; they all knew the drill by now.

"Dr. Watson" she nodded to him in greeting, but it was also usually his cue to leave the room.

Leave he did. And with their moment interrupted, they wouldn't speak of their emotional exchange again for a good few days. At least now, the tension between them was much less charged and much more a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

\--

There was, however, the remaining part of their unspoken words- and this one was on Sherlock rather than on John.

_What happened in Serbia._

_What happened in Serbia?_

_What happened in Serbia??_

_WHAT HAPPENED IN SERBIA???_

He could nearly hear John's eyes screaming every time the doctor saw him flinch, every time he saw him waking up from sleep sweating and gasping, every time he witnessed his panic attacks and saw the missing fingers on his hands.

_What happened? What happened? What happened?_

But Sherlock pretended not to see the question in his eyes- as though the consulting detective would ever miss something so blatant. He couldn't bring himself to answer- he hadn't rationalized it yet. All he knew was that, for now, the memories brought him an intense feeling of shame and he didn't know what to do with it.

The fact that John had confessed his feelings for him – had that actually happened? – only seemed to make things harder. It felt like he was handing John something broken.

And so he said nothing. For as long as he didn't put the cards up on the table, he didn't have to deal with the consequences and he could imagine whatever outcome he wanted. Although, to be honest, he didn't even know what outcome he wanted anymore.

His hand was forced one night when he woke up from one of his nightmares. Well, it wasn't forced so much as politely nudged. He could have ignored it, but in the end he didn't.

His nightmares ranged from Moriarty being back to life, to John being killed by a sniper, to John being pushed off the roof of St. Bart's, to Sherlock being forced back into Serbia, to his actual time in Serbia and-

Sometimes he'd wake up gasping for air and in a full blown panic attack, but more often than not he would just stir and stir and stir in his own sweat until he woke himself up. Tonight was one of the latter, and he just sat up in his bed, ran a hand through his face and took in his surroundings- England. John. Mission over.

And like he'd do often, he checked to see if his friend had woken up. And when he was certain John was dead asleep on the couch, he reached into the side table by his bed and opened the file Mycroft had given him so he could look over the pictures one by one.

He was dead.

He was dead.

He was dead.

He was dead

He was dead.

He flicked through them like an album. And like an album, every single picture came with a collection of memories. He remembered all of them, he remembered exactly what they smelled like, what they tasted like, what they sounded like, if they were bigger or smaller or rougher or faster- he remembered everything. But they were dead. They were dead and his nightmares were just that.

Sometimes he could spend hours looking at the photos until he worked himself into sleep again. But tonight, there was stirring coming from the couch on his left and his hands froze on the pictures when he saw John sitting up and rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"Sherlock? You ok?" the man asked, his voice as worried as it sounded sleepy.

The detective thought about hiding the pictures back into the folder, but John had already seen he'd been holding something and he was coming over to see what it was.

"Hey, what are you doing up? You alright?" he asked again, and he was now standing just a foot away from the bed.

The room was dim enough that it'd be very hard to see what Sherlock was holding unless one angled it towards the light. No lamps were turned on in the room, but the moon was full and shiny in the sky and it casted a bright, white glow through the large windows.

"Yes" Sherlock said softly "I just- couldn't sleep."

John nodded, he understood; probably more than most people, really.

"You want me to make you some tea? Might help?" he wanted to reach out and run his hand through Sherlock's buzz cut, but his hands stayed firm at his side. Despite their mutual feelings, there was something between them still, a line they had not crossed, and he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Sherlock shook his head and was still holding the pictures face down on his lap without knowing what to do.

John gestured towards them and asked conversationally "What are those?"

"Pictures" he said truthfully, as John took a seat on his armchair.

His friend frowned "Did Mycroft bring them?"

He nodded.

"What is that, from the mission? Please tell me Mycroft didn't bring you a damn case- you're not even out of the hospital yet, Jesus."

Sherlock smiled "Not a case." He assured "It's ahm- yeah, from the mission."

There was a heavy silence as John didn't know how to ask _Are they pictures of you?_ or even if he should ask at all.

"It's the casualties. Moriarty's men" Sherlock offered before he could help it; he couldn't stand the look John'd had on his face.

A beat.

"Can I see?"

And there was that part of John that Sherlock knew so intimately – a darker part of him. The same that had answered _Oh god, yes_ when Sherlock had invited him to see more corpses and violence; the same part that had come running even when Sherlock texted him _Could be dangerous_. John wasn't a sadist, he just had the same vein in him as the Sherlock who'd thrown an American agent out the window for hurting Mrs. Hudson – it wasn't sadism, it was satisfaction in revenge.

And while dead men didn't talk, the ones in the picture would. John wasn't blind, regardless what Sherlock had said on numerous occasions, and he would understand what the pictures meant.

Most of the men had had their penis chopped off, most likely while still alive, and it was a glaringly obvious statement. It was a punishment fit for the crime and Sherlock's hands trembled because he didn't want John to know.

But those same hands that shook were lifting off his lap and offering the pictures to John like one would offer their heart up for slaughter.

"Wow" came the low exclamation when John saw the first body, it was a subdued type of approval, but it was approval nonetheless.

He moved onto the next picture with the same hungry eyes, and he glanced back to Sherlock only for a second. "Mycroft's been busy, hasn't he?" but as he cycled through the pictures, his expression started to shift into something more guarded and his grip on the photographs tightened.

Sherlock could practically see it when he made the connection, from the telltale intake of breath he tried to hide, to the minute widening of his eyes, to slight tremor in his hands. He looked away before John could look up at him.

There was silence in the room for the next few minutes as John looked at the pictures again, and again and again. His eyes glued to them because he couldn't look anywhere else. His eyes were watering and his throat was closing and he didn't want to break down in front of Sherlock and just make it all worse.

Twenty one, he counted. Twenty one men. Twenty one.

He memorized their faces – or what was left of them – and both thanked and cursed Mycroft for having took care of them without inviting him to the party. A part of him wanted to believe he was above barbaric acts like this, the men had obviously been tortured before death, but he honestly wasn't so sure.

He knew he needed to say something, anything, but there weren't any words- there were no words. His heart was being stabbed repeatedly in his chest and he wanted to bolt from the room so he could cry in peace yet again.

He handed the photos back to Sherlock and the detective lagged in accepting them, but in the end he did and placed them over his lap, face-up this time.

John couldn't speak, because if he did, it would have come out as a sob. So he gritted his teeth together and was thankful that Sherlock was the one to break the silence.

"I wasn't sure if you knew"

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. John chanted in his own head, but he felt the tear fall before he could do anything about it. "I didn't" it was only two words, but they managed to come out broken nonetheless.

It grew into something he knew he wasn't going to be able to control, he could feel it coming and he had to run. He couldn't do this to Sherlock, he couldn't shift the attention onto him when it was his friend who was hurting, who had been-

"I'm- I'll just- I need to-" he was standing up so fast he almost knocked his armchair over, which was a feat given how bulky it was, and then he was running out of the room.

He actually left the hospital building and hid on the steps near bushes so he could let it all out unbidden. He cried again, like he had when Sherlock had died, like he had when he saw the man's mutilated hands. He cried with his hands over his mouth and snot running down his face because god- it hurt.

It fucking hurt.

\--

A nurse had been so concerned when he came back in that she thought something had happened to Sherlock in the night, but John shook his head and tried to hide his puffy eyes, his red nose and swollen face.

Sherlock was asleep by the time he got back, so he went to his couch, lay down and tried to sleep, but failed miserably for hours.

When he woke up the next day, Mycroft was there and the two brothers were having a row over something or other. They both stopped once John stirred and started fighting more quietly, as if it wasn't already moot point.

"I brought breakfast, if you feel so inclined" Mycroft told him when he'd left the bathroom with his teeth brushed, hair combed and a fresh set of clothes on.

"Ta" John nodded, and looked nervously towards Sherlock for a moment, before sitting down at the wooden table to eat. Granted, the food had gone cold by now, but it was still much better than what they had at the hospital's canteen.

He ate in silence while the two brothers got back to arguing avidly over a pair of gloves- turns out they were playing their deduction game and Mycroft was winning from the looks of it. John couldn't help but stare a hole into the back of the man's neck; thinking over and over how he'd known all this time what had happened to Sherlock and hadn't mentioned a thing.

Suddenly John wasn't eating his breakfast so much as angrily stabbing at it and shoving it into his mouth without even tasting the food properly.

After Mycroft left, he couldn't help but avoid Sherlock's gaze and before he knew what he was doing, he was going into the bathroom, locking the door and taking out his phone.

 _Don't. Leave._ He texted the elder Holmes, not caring if he was being obvious to Sherlock aside from the precautions he was already taking by hiding in the loo.

When he came out, he was sure to linger for at least another handful of minutes before running a hand through his hair like he was just realizing something.

"Oh, you know what, I think I'm gonna run to the desk for a bit, see if they have some aspirin. I have this headache and…" he trailed off, still not looking Sherlock in the eye lest he'd give himself away.

But the detective just hummed in acknowledgement.

"Right. Well, I'll ah- be back in just a bit" he said with finality as he got up and went for the door.

And then he realized it'd be the first time Sherlock would be left alone in the room. Well, aside from John's little stunt yesterday, but that had hardly been premeditated. So he couldn't help but hesitate at touching the door knob.

"Will you be alright?" he asked softly.

"No, John. I will go into spontaneous combustion the minute you set foot outside the door" Sherlock responded, and it made him smile that his friend was starting to sound like his old self, but John also wondered if he was just putting on a brave face.

"I won't be long" he reassured, just in case, and set out.

\--

"Why! Why didn't you tell me!" he demanded, shouting even as he knew he probably shouldn't do it in a hospital.

Well, they weren't inside the building itself; Mycroft had been waiting for him outside in the gardens, back turned and umbrella firmly planted on the floor between his feet.

"Why do you think, John?"

Oh, it was John now, was it? This was a 'John' conversation- and 'John' conversations meant Mycroft had either screwed up or wanted something from him. Or both.

"Because you're a bloody, manipulative bastard, who sent your own bloody brother-" he started, his anger boiling into rage inside him.

"It was Sherlock's mission- I had-" Mycroft started, still facing the other way.

"No! You sent him there! You could have sent the entire British secret service to get the job done, but no! No, you sent _him_! You-"

An umbrella was tapped emphatically against the floor as the elder Holmes turned around.

"Why do you harbor this delusional notion that I have any control over Sherlock Holmes?" the man demanded, and his voice was still level, but very, very serious. "I didn't have control over him when he became a drug addict at eighteen and I don't have control over him now. He was going to track down Moriarty's network with or without my help, and I could either join him or wait at home for the body bag. So I did. What. I. Could." He enunciated each word, and every inch he had on John was now clearly delineated as he towered over the shorter man.

John was clenching his fists and looking away, positively trembling with the effort to stand there and listen.

"You could have-" he started again, lamely this time.

"I _did_." Mycroft interrupted, because no matter what the doctor would have said, he had done that and more. If it could be accomplished by human hands, Mycroft had done it to make sure his brother came home and if he could be sure of nothing else, he was sure of that.

John was starting to feel his nose prickle in that tell-tale sign that his eyes were going to start watering, so he blinked rapidly.

The British official had been nearly in his personal space, but had backed off now and stood in a more relaxed stance.

"I do not think Sherlock would have appreciated my sharing the details of his stay in Serbia with you. And you'll forgive me, Doctor Watson, if I wanted to afford him the dignity of, for the first time in months, having something done on his own terms."

John was blinking rapidly now and, once again, he had to accept that his anger towards Mycroft was simply misplaced. The twenty one corpses in that file showed exactly what Sherlock's brother felt towards what'd happened to him.

"I just-" wish I could undo it? Wish it hadn't happened?

Mycroft pursed his lips for a moment and nodded "What you are doing now- that you're here with him, that is enough."

It sure as hell didn't feel like it.

"Well, I must be on my way; I believe we're done here?" he asked, and he wasn't trying to be unkind.

He started walking off, but stopped to tap with his umbrella again "Don't forget to get the aspirin on your way back. Good day, John" and then he was off.

\--

"So I take it your talk with my dear brother didn't go as planned?" was the first thing Sherlock said when he walked through the door.

John actually sighed in defeat, the hand clutching his decoy slumping to his side. He ran a hand over his face and then tossed the unnecessary bottle of aspirin on the couch.

"Fine. Yes. I was talking to Mycroft, you're a genius of deduction, thank you very much" He mocked lightly, but he just sounded tired.

Slowly, he made his way to his armchair and sat down, looking around a bit thoughtfully before settling on "I didn't- I wasn't trying to talk about you behind your back." He said, finally looking his friend in the face.

Sherlock's expression was pretty flat, and it made him nervous.

"Oh?" his tone sounded just as ambiguous as his expression.

"I just…" John didn't even know what he meant to say anymore, because he was frowning at the detective's expression.

"What did you ask Mycroft, John?"

And the reservation in Sherlock's voice only confirmed how right Mycroft had been.

John shook his head immediately "I didn't." then he paused, considering. "I went after Mycroft because I needed someone to shout at, because I'm- I'm fucking pissed, Sherlock. I'm so angry." he shook his head "I know it's not your brother I'm angry at, but he's the only person here, so it just-"

The detective nodded minutely.

"Look, I- I'm not going to lie and say that I don't- that I don't wonder about what happened, but I'm not-" John continued "If you want to tell me, I'm here and I'm gonna listen, but if you- if you don't want to talk about it, I get it."

And he did get it. When John came back from Afghanistan, he never really talked about his time there, or about his injury. Of course, he wasn't left as marred by his time as a soldier as Sherlock was from his time in Serbia – well, if Mycroft was to be trusted, John's PTSD hadn't even been related to his gunshot wound, but that was a whole 'nother kettle of fish – nonetheless, he understood.

There was silence as Sherlock seemed to contemplate what he'd said, or as he thought about something else altogether. Finally, the detective laced his fingers together over his lap and looked at him.

"The reason why… I let you see those pictures, John, is because I-" He closed his mouth, re-thinking the way he was going to say it "I don't know if I'll ever- if I will ever be able to… be with someone, in that way."

His voice was the softest John ever remembered hearing it, save for when Sherlock was faking it for a case with his rather extensive acting skills.

"I hadn't- before. And it's just that- I had never wanted to. I never saw the appeal of it, but then-" he swallowed "When I realized my- what I felt for you, slowly I- I started to understand. And for the first time, I could see it happening. If it was you, I could see it happening." He let out a bit of a huffed laugh "And part of it was that you were NOT GAY so it was safe to think about it when I knew it was merely hypothetical."

Sherlock had thought about it? About them? John's throat tightened even as he caught onto another piece of information.

"Never…? You never felt- you never wanted to? Have sex with anyone?" and it was one of the Things They Never Ever Talked About.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Wow" John felt himself murmur, he didn't think something like that was possible.

Sherlock cleared his throat and continued "I don't want you to..." what were the right words for this? "I don't want to deceive you. What we said, the other day- what you said, that you also feel something for me- I don't want to lead you along, because I know that after what happened, I- I can't. I can't."

John was blinking rapidly, and he was already preparing this huge speech about how it wasn't the same thing; about how having something taken from you against your will, under the threat of violence – or, wrapped in violence – was completely different from sharing your body with someone you cared about. But then he realized that it was useless to say it- that's not what Sherlock needed to hear right now. Hell, that wasn't even the point John wanted to make right now.

"Ok." He said, like he had just accepted a mission.

Sherlock frowned, looking at him like he was trying to figure him out. "Ok...?"

John shrugged, nodding. "Ok. Sex is off the table, I got it."

The detective was giving him the same look he did when John had clearly missed something obvious during a case "John. I meant- I mean, _forever_." He emphasized pointedly.

But the doctor just nodded. "Yes, I understood."

And now Sherlock looked frustrated. "What do you mean, _you understood_? You can't go without sex. I know, I counted the days."

"You counted the-" John interrupted, spluttering. Then he shook his head "I can. If I want to, I can."

At Sherlock's skeptical expression, he carried on "Look, Sherlock, I- I lost you. I lost you once and I- when I first saw you when you came back, when I saw you here- this is it. This is it for me. I'm just- I don't want a relationship anymore" he said very seriously, before amending quickly "with other people! I don't want a relationship outside this. You and I. If we're going to be friends, we're going to be friends. If we're going to be more, we're going to be more. Whatever it is, this is it."

Sherlock was stopped, looking at him like he didn't understand English. He was just staring and staring, for a really long time. Maybe he was having an inner conversation? But it really was taking long, and John started looking at him questioningly, wondering if he should get up and go fetch a nurse.

"Sherlock? Are you ok?"

"What? Oh. Yes" he cleared his throat "Well. Ok. I didn't- so you still- even if we never-"

John nodded.

A hint of a smile tugged at Sherlock's lips and he felt his heart skip a beat- he hadn't really expected this. Well, he hadn't really known what to expect, but.

Tentatively, John raised one of his hands and slowly placed it over Sherlock's left one, stroking the back of it every so lightly while giving him his best awkward smile.

That night, both of them slept remarkably well.

\--

It's like the day knew what had transpired between the two men, for it woke up sunny and bright. May was here and with it, spring was in full bloom. The scenery outside was positively gorgeous and John couldn't help but smile when he looked out the window after rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

There was no Mycroft today, as expected, and so he went to fetch food from the canteen before coming back to help Sherlock with his morning routine. The detective was doing pretty much everything on his own, so long as he rested between bouts of exertion. Sure, he still needed help to walk, but he could also take some steps by himself.

There were a lot of smiles being thrown around over food and books, and once they both had had their breakfast and their morning papers out of the way, John stretched and said "Do you want to try going outside today? Look at it, it's beautiful"

Sherlock allowed himself to admit that indeed, it did look beautiful- especially the sunlight, catching on John's hair. But yes, he did in fact want – need – to step outside properly for the first time in almost six months.

"Ok, yes, let's do that" he said, and he was already pushing himself up so he could sit on the bed.

John hovered over him as he slowly moved his legs off to the side and put his feet on the floor. They were pretty used to this by now, and as one they moved as soon as Sherlock was holding onto John's shoulders.

His ribs had almost entirely healed at this point, sometimes they would still hurt a bit, but it was barely there. His legs weren't quite there yet though and sometimes they would simply give out on him, though thankfully not both at once.

The scar on his right leg from the surgery – they had to put metal in there, apparently – was also healed. But it was the large incision that ran down Sherlock's entire stomach that still kept him hunching when he walked and groaning when he moved too fast; John hadn't seen it yet, and hopefully the detective could keep it that way.

Slowly, but surely, they made their way out of the room and into the halls; the faithful IV drip being dragged along with them. They came across some of the nurses they knew, and Sherlock was trying very hard not to let his imagination run too wild at the amount of people he was surrounded by. His gaze focused on the two men standing by the hospital entrance up ahead- Mycroft's men.

John looked at him searchingly, worried, but he just gave him a small smile in response; they kept walking.

When they made it past the threshold of the door, the two agents stepped aside to let them through even as one of them spoke into his radio almost immediately after – probably updating the rest of the team as to where their charges were.

It was already the furthest Sherlock had ever been from his room, and his tightened grip on John's arm made it clear he was very aware of the fact. John rubbed his thumb over his friend's hand affectionately, hoping to soothe him and remind him that he wasn't doing this alone.

"Let me show you something" he said and gently tugged Sherlock towards the right, so they could walk around the building and towards the back.

What they eventually reached, with their slow pace, was a beautiful terrace. It was much larger than the balcony in their room, and it faced the actual gardens, giving it a breathtaking view.

It was surrounded by a short row of columns and marble steps led down to the garden bellow. There had once been a door that would have led directly to the terrace from the hospital, but it had been locked away in what looked to be a permanent fashion.

Sherlock was taking in the vast expanse of green, the trees, the blooms of dandelions and daisies that grew unbidden and he had to close his eyes for a moment. It was almost like a dream that he was standing here, holding onto John, when he had been half dead, locked in a freezing basement a couple of months ago.

They were both smiling openly at having successfully made it outside. The breeze and the lovely sunny day leaving both feeling optimistic; it almost looked like things might turn out ok.

John caught Sherlock's gaze and there was the unmistakable pull, the unaddressed tension between them, the unfulfilled promise- he wasn't completely sure where they stood, but this time he decided to just risk it and try.

With his heart beating in his throat he leaned forward, almost on his tiptoes, and closed the distance between them; his lips pressing ever so softly, chastely, against his flatmate's. It was the culmination of years' worth of waiting, of hundreds of unspoken words and missed opportunities, and yet it did not hold any of that weight- it was light as a feather and it filled both men with a sense of peace.

They pulled away quietly, John barely able to look Sherlock in the eye "Is this- is this ok?" he asked almost in a whisper, very conscious of this extremely fragile thing growing between them. He had no idea how far the detective's ban on physical intimacy went and he didn't want to destroy this.

But Sherlock nodded minutely, still processing the new, tentative step they had just taken.

There was nothing but their heavy breathing for a while, and then it was the consulting detective who moved first. He leaned forward the tiniest bit, their foreheads bumping together for a moment before he captured John's lips with his own. This time, their mouths opened experimentally, tongues finding each other and making contact for the first time.

It was a strangely pleasant sensation, feeling the inside of John's warm mouth. And he realized with a pang of both relief and regret that at least they hadn't taken _this_ away from him. John was the first person he'd ever kissed outside of a case and he cherished it immensely.

It was a bit awkward, for both of them kept their hands firmly and stiffly by their sides, unmoving; Sherlock still holding onto the IV stand for support. But the skies were still blue and John was still there and he could feel the warmth of his body and he wouldn't change a thing about it. This is who they were- stilted, grown Englishmen with the emotional maturity of a tea kettle, but at least they were navigating this new thing together- they'd figure it out in their own time.

When they parted, they both had little private smiles on their faces and John shyly moved his hand so that it brushed against Sherlock's free one, their fingers interlacing ever so slightly. He brushed his thumb against the other's own and then let his head drop onto the other man's shoulder. Sherlock welcomed the proximity and rested his head on top of John's, nuzzling ever so slightly as he committed his scent to memory once again; John had always smelt like home.

"I love you" John murmured into his shoulder, and it was the softest of confessions, even as it was not news to either of them.

Still, the word washed over Sherlock like a balm to his soul and he closed his eyes to savor them, to savor that they had finally made it.

"I love you too, John." He whispered just as softly into his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yey, see, fluff!
> 
> More notes (yes I write too many lol):
> 
> -I'm writing them both as severely emotionally-constipated people; John as an extremely repressed bisexual, and Sherlock as a gay demisexual-ish, because that's exactly how they come across to me in the BBC canon. I don't think they would personally identify themselves with any of those terms, however.  
> -One thing I always dislike about most recovery fics (and, by all means, everyone should write what they like, of course!), is that Sherlock always is hostile towards John. Personally, I don't think that'd be the case. I had yet to find a fic that portrayed them both as actively loving and open to each other after a trauma like this so I had to write my own lol.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part three is up =)  
> As I think I've said before, this story doesn't have chapters so much as parts. So honestly it's just one huge oneshot imo.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

It's at least one thing answered – platonic no more.

John never actually asked what the boundaries were, and Sherlock never actually offered them either, they just stumbled their way blindly into it, holding onto each other for support as they went.

When Sherlock woke up, John would kiss him good morning, they'd smile and laugh and tease each other as they used to. But then, Sherlock would also move on his bed and give John quiet looks of invitation. They spent one full afternoon side by side in the small hospital bed, Sherlock doing his puzzles while John read a book. They ended up taking a nap, John's head on his shoulder and the detective's arm wrapped loosely around him.

The nurse walked in on them and it was a rather embarrassing ordeal, but they also felt no need to explain themselves; the woman couldn't care less.

In the night, John slept on his couch and there were lingering glances across the room and a lot of tossing and turning, but neither of them brought it up.

When morning came, however, Sherlock simply put his plastic tea cup down on the table – he'd taken to having breakfast sat down on the cushioned wooden chair with John, rather than propped up on an excess of pillows on his bed – and said "I want to go home."

John eyed him with a mix of curiosity and reluctance. Sherlock could already see his friend forming a litany of objections, so he said it again with more resolve "John, I want to go home. I want to go back to Baker Street."

The doctor sighed, knowing a lost battle when he saw one. "We'll talk to Mycroft. See what the doctors have to say. They need to be ok with discharging you." And that last part was something neither he nor Mycroft would be willing to waive.

Sherlock just hummed and continued to eat.

It made John incredibly happy to see him recovering like this- recovering his will, his weight and appetite; and even his curls as his hair had grown back just enough that you could tell it wasn't straight.

Before he could think much about it, he raised a hand and ran his fingers across the locks; it's something he'd always wanted to do. Sherlock looked at him questioningly, but just smiled. And then he leaned over ever so slightly, the detective meeting him halfway in a kiss that tasted like eggs and butter.

When Mycroft came in later that evening, presumably after work, he actually seemed to ponder on the issue of Sherlock's discharge instead of adamantly vetoing it.

John was, once again, politely asked to leave as the two brothers talked to Sherlock's doctor in private. He knew it was fair and that Sherlock was allowed his privacy, but a part of him ached to be included in any and all aspect of his flatmate's life.

"I can arrange for a nurse to come in at least for a few hours each day" Mycroft started once they had gone over Sherlock's case and the Doctor seemed opened to discharging him.

But the consulting detective shook his head "No. I have John. I don't- he won't mind." He intervened, not wanting a strange person intruding on their life beyond this hospital "I don't mind." He added, because he wouldn't really need any help aside from what John currently helped him with anyway. It's not like much would change.

At the physician's questioning glance, Mycroft explained "John is a doctor" and then turned to his brother again "Are you certain, Sherlock? It could prove to be… uncomfortable."

But he nodded, glancing towards the door beyond which his friend waited to be allowed back in. He could do this, they could do this together.

A bit tiredly, but accepting, Mycroft simply got up and took his phone out. "I'll have John's things transferred to the flat" he said to no one in particular, as he allowed the doctor to speak to his brother about the finer details of his future routine.

\--

The next day, after lunch, they were all packed and ready to go.

It was somewhat bittersweet and surreal to be leaving this place after two months of pretending the outside world didn't exist. But Mycroft himself was there leading their little party out into the halls and into the sleek black car that awaited them, and it seemed to ground Sherlock.

The nurses were, however discretely, almost in a line as they passed, greeting them and waving them goodbye, wishing for a successful recovery; the detective was graceful in accepting their well-wishes.

Outside the three of them, there was only one of Mycroft's men carrying their two suitcases – they hadn't much between them – but when everyone entered the car, the man sat on the front seat with the driver, leaving the three of them in the privacy of the back seats.

Sherlock sat by the window, and it was equal parts refreshing and intimidating to watch as the scenery went by and he took in the outside world for the first time in forever. He looked a bit nervous, bundled up in a dressing gown over hospital clothes – he hadn't bothered to change and they were comfortable and familiar.

John could tell when he started slipping into something darker, restless, and so – Mycroft be damned – he softly grasped Sherlock's right hand in both of his, gently cradling it and calling Sherlock's attention back to the real world.

It was the hand that only had three fingers and there was something symbolic about holding it so gently. Sherlock looked at him, having been pulled from his musings and allowed himself to bask in the touch. He stopped himself from kissing John as it would be too much – he couldn't do it in front of his brother.

He fell asleep halfway through the ride back home, leaning on John's shoulder as the man wrapped an arm around him invitingly.

Over the top of Sherlock's head, John and Mycroft shared a meaningful glance and it was an unspoken vow on the doctor's part – _I'll look after him_. The older Holmes simply looked away in acceptance, relief.

\--

"Sherlock? Sherlock, love, we're here; we're home" he nudged the detective awake gently, afraid to startle him.

The sleepy pale eyes slowly blinked awake and at noticing their unfamiliar surroundings, the detective gripped John's arm hard.

"Baker Street. We're at the flat" John supplied immediately, nudging Sherlock to look the other way so he could see the familiar numbers on the dark door.

Mycroft was pointedly not looking at either of them.

They exited the car together and slowly made their way up the seventeen steps, one by one. Mycroft and the minion went up ahead to get the doors and leave their things in the living room.

Back to Baker Street.

The two years and a half that had gone by stretched all over the flat, griping every single surface even as the rooms looked identical from before. Mycroft's men had done a thorough job of putting everything back exactly where it had all been. But like Sherlock's too short hair, too thin frame and mutilated hands, it was impossible not to see the difference.

When Sherlock found his violin, the absolutely heartbroken look on his face almost made John's heart stop. The doctor hadn't even remembered; hadn't even made the connection before. Sherlock had been robbed of one of the things he loved the most in this world, and John would have given anything – his own hands if he could have – to give it back to him.

As the afternoon grew into evening, the question of sleeping arrangements came into play. It made itself known in the tension that grew between them – well, the tension was more akin to anticipation, at this point.

While John was trying his hardest not to be patronizing, the simple truth of the matter was that Sherlock couldn't move around on his own yet – or, not very far anyway. Sharing a room was the only real option; it just hadn't really dawned on either of them properly until then.

"I can bring my mattress in here" John offered, trying with all his might to sound casual. "I just- I don't want to crowd you."

What they had between them was still in its infancy, but more importantly, the nature of Sherlock's trauma made everything that much more fragile. There was something intensely intimate about sharing a bed with someone else.

The detective actually stopped to think on the question, all the while staring at the enormous bed he hadn't seen in years. Instead of addressing the matter at hand, he touched the headboard absentmindedly and asked "Can you push the bed against the corner?"

John was thrown at the non-sequitur, but just nodded, frowning slightly. He did as asked, and then the detective cautiously walked towards the bed and took a seat with a good amount of effort.

"It's a pretty big bed, John." He said, finally. And that was his answer.

The doctor bit back the _Are you sure?_ and just nodded his acceptance. "I'll bring my stuff down, then."

That night neither of them slept really well. Sherlock tossed and turned the entire time. He'd wake up every couple of hours and John would wake up with him; he was in his soldier mode, completely alert and ready to spring to action.

But the detective didn't need anything, he just couldn't sleep well. He had kept the sleeping pattern he'd developed in Serbia. Namely, he woke up at any hint of sounds, because if he wasn't up and ready when his captors wanted him, the sessions were always rougher.

"Sherlock, do you want me to make you some tea? Get you some water?" John asked when his flatmate woke up for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"I'm fine, John. Go to sleep" came the tired reply. And then Sherlock shifted on the bed, groaned and became silent again.

\--

"Morning, love" John said as he heard the detective slowly walking out of the bedroom. "Here, come on." he closed the distance between them in quick steps and offered his arm for Sherlock to hold onto. "Bathroom first?"

Sherlock nodded sleepily and John dropped him off there before heading back to the kitchen. "Call me when you're out" he shouted over his shoulder.

"I'm sure I can reach the sofa on my own without dying, John"

The doctor smiled at his grumpy morning mood and continued making them a proper English breakfast. Ah, homemade food! How he had missed it.

When they sat at their usual places, each holding a cup of hot steaming coffee, it almost felt like time had turned back.

Sherlock reached out towards the coffee table, and the fact he had to bend to get his food made his surgery scar pull painfully. John didn't miss his wince at all and so the doctor was up on his feet in a second. "Wait, let me-" the man started, drifting off as he looked around for something he could use to prop the food up.

He settled on making a pile of hardcover books and placing them by Sherlock's side "Just don't move too much or you'll knock it over" he cautioned. And then he glanced back towards the kitchen "We should have eaten at the table…"

"This is fine. This is perfect, ok?" Sherlock told him firmly, and it was part exasperated, part appreciative.

Their eyes locked for a moment, both of them holding the gaze for a bit longer than necessary. And then John leaned in and kissed Sherlock's lips, tasting the coffee on his tongue. It was quick, but it was filled with affection.

Sherlock brushed his hand slightly against the shorter man's and they both had smiles on their faces when they dug into their beans on toast.

\--

Lestrade didn't walk so much as he jogged up the stairs like a mad man, throwing the door open without even thinking to knock. He was out of breath, but still staring around the flat frantically.

John was sat on his chair, his old arm chair, and was looking at him with startled eyes "Greg" he breathed out the name in surprise.

But the detective wasn't even paying him any mind. His eyes were fixed on the other chair, where Sherlock sat crossed legged, bundled up in his dressing gown.

"Sherlock?! Oh my bloody- Is it true?!" the officer barged in and he was clearly shaken, even as he was grinning like mad. "You bastard!" he laughed, unbelieving. He almost threw himself at the other detective, but something about Sherlock's thinner frame and shorter hair kept him from doing it.

Sherlock had immediately hidden his hands inside his dressing gown and was schooling his features into something casual. "Ah, Lestrade. I assume my brother couldn't keep his abnormally large nose out of my business, as per usual" he drawled, and he sounded exactly like his old self; it made John smile.

"You're back from the bloody dead, I'd say he's allowed to tell us." he was still grinning, unbelieving. And then he reached into his coat pocket and offered him an envelope. "Also, he thought you might want to help out"

Sherlock almost, almost lifted his hand to grab the envelope, but thankfully stopped himself in time. "Just put it over there, Graham. What is it, you people forgot how to tie your shoes again?"

"I'll take that" John offered helpfully and opened the envelope before Lestrade could think too much of Sherlock's actions. But then again, was anything ever strange when it came from Sherlock?

"It's a cold case, your majesty. Well, not that cold. It's from last year. Thought you might want to look at the files, see what you can get out of it."

Sherlock hummed, but John could tell he was hiding excitement.

Greg still lingered for a bit, even had some coffee with them, but then he had to go back to the Yard and he left with the promise that John and he were going to catch up over a pint very soon.

Mrs. Hudson's grand entry was not as subdued. The woman shrieked, passed out, yelled at both of them and then passive aggressively offered to make them dinner that night.

By the time she left, Sherlock was already asleep on the couch, exhausted.

\--

"Sherlock? You ok in there?" John asked.

He didn't want to hover around his flatmate, but the man was taking a shower on his own, with no support bars like the hospital had and John didn't want the detective to slip and hit his head or something. He was taking too long.

An exasperated sigh came from inside and Sherlock said "Fine, John. Just give me a minute."

There was some shuffling from inside and another sigh. Then finally, the detective said "You can come in." and he sounded defeated.

John found him sat on the toilet's closed lid, hair damp and body already dry – so successful shower, at least – and wearing loose pajama bottoms.

"I… need your help" the younger man said, finally; he looked honestly tired.

It was then that John noticed the half healed scar that ran vertically down Sherlock's entire stomach. It was clearly not one of his torture scars, it was too precise and deep – surgery. He hadn't even known Sherlock'd had abdominal surgery while at the hospital, but then again, he didn't know much at all. It did explain why it hurt so much for him to walk and sit and stand up.

He decided not to point out the obvious, and instead just stood in front of his friend and held out his arms. "You want to get up?"

Sherlock shook his head, and then he gestured to the vast amount of gauze, bandages and plaster that had just been discarded to the rubbish bin. "I took it off, but now I can't do it." It hurt too much to bend and try to re-do the bandages himself, but he had been trying to avoid John seeing the scar. So much for that.

"Let's do this on the bed, ok? That'll be easier."

And so John helped him back to the the(ir?) bedroom, noting how exhausted he seemed from the simple act of taking a shower. He came back with an armful of medical supplies – Mycroft had stocked the bathroom cabinets full – and quietly cleaned and dressed Sherlock's incision scar again.

"It's healing pretty well, no signs of infection." He commented when he was done, because what else could he say?

The unspoken question still hovered in the air, but John went on to take care of the surgery scar on Sherlock's leg. This one he had already been helping with; it was essentially healed and only needed a bit of creams applied on it so it'd heal faster.

Unprompted, Sherlock cleared his throat and started speaking "I, ahm, didn't mention it before, because I didn't- I didn't want to explain it." He said carefully.

John finished what he was doing, put the supplies away and then came back to sit on the bed. Only then did he nod in acknowledgement and encouragement for the detective to go on. He could tell this was going to be a delicate conversation.

"John, you- well, you know already. What they did." Sherlock started, and then looked away before carrying on "But, it wasn't- it wasn't something that happened just once. It was-" he couldn't bring himself to finish it.

"The first three weeks or so I spent there, it was interrogations only" He was looking down at his hands, flexing the fingers that were still there, while alluding to the ones that weren't "But after they got the information out of Robinson, I was no longer an asset. So the last three months I spent there… it was every day. They would- they would just come in and" he deliberately stopped the phrase there, because he still couldn't speak the words. He wondered if he'd ever be able to.

John was blinking rapidly in the tell-tale sign that he was trying not to let any tears come to his eyes. He was desperately trying to project the illusion of calm, but his clenched jaw was ruining it.

Sherlock just cleared his throat minutely again and looked away for a moment, his demeanor somewhat detached, like he was talking about someone else.

"So, ah, it was very- there was a lot of… internal damage." He finished, finally, because he couldn't think of anything else to say aside from getting into details.

John couldn't stop looking at the wound he had just bandaged, much as he couldn't stop replaying Sherlock's words over and over again in his head. He nodded if for no reason other than he wanted his friend to know he'd heard everything; that he understood.

In fact, the doctor in him understood much more from the words 'internal damage' than he had at first.

"When you- was that why you didn't want to eat? When you woke up?" he asked, and he was severely glad his tone sounded almost conversational. That was good, that was normal, normal was good.

The muscles around Sherlock's mouth tightened and his nod was almost, almost imperceptible.

John was blinking rapidly again, and this time he closed his eyes as he nodded. He wondered if any of this would ever start hurting less.

"Yeah. That- yeah" he murmured, trying to keep the façade of conversation.

Sherlock looked down, like he was gathering his thoughts, and for a moment John remember that first case years ago. The detective had made that same face when he'd tried to figure out how to best turn John's advances down.

"John, I'm not- I'm not broken" he said eventually, and his voice was almost diplomatic.

"No. No, you're not. You're not." The doctor agreed, immediately, matter-of-factly. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are the strongest, bravest, most brilliant man I have ever met."

They didn't exactly coordinate it, but that night – their second night back in the flat – Sherlock slept on his back, tucked up against the wall while John slept on his side, completely flush against the detective's body.

Sherlock only woke up two times that night and John merely ran his hand up and down his arm in reassurance before snuggling up to him even more; it worked and the detective was soon fast asleep.

When they woke that following morning, it felt like there was nothing standing between them anymore. They stared at each other instead of immediately moving to get up, and if Sherlock ever needed to define the word 'Home' with startling precision, this moment would have been it.

"Morning, love" John said eventually, a small smile on his face and his eyes filled with adoration.

Sherlock was on his back, so it'd be hard for him to turn without pulling on his scar, but he still tried the tiniest bit. Reading the attempt, John propped himself up on his elbows and moved so he almost hovered over the detective, but without putting any weight on him.

"Morning" the younger man finally replied and there was a curious glint in his eyes. He then reached out with his right hand and curled his fingers on the nape of John's neck. They met each other halfway into an open mouth kissed that tasted like promises and morning breath. It was perfect.

"I like this" Sherlock said, afterwards. And it was the same tone of voice he'd have used to declare the results of an experiment.

John had to laugh at that, burying his face momentarily in his partner's neck. "Well, I'm glad you do." He said, kissing whatever part of him was closer.

They lazed about in bed for a few minutes still, but then John's stomach was growling and they both grinned at the sound. "Breakfast?" the doctor suggested, and the detective acquiesced.

\--

Sherlock started solving cold cases – 3s and 4s from what John could tell – from the couch and texting Lestrade every few hours with a solution. It kept him busy and focused and John was glad to see it.

He also dutifully sat down for all meals of the day, and didn't complain when he had to drink his meal supplement on top of that. The combined effect of proper nutrition and extra calories had him finally back to his normal weight after two weeks of being home.

Once the detective was able to move around entirely on his own, he started rebuilding his chemistry lab, and their short-lived use of the kitchen table for eating purposes came to an end. John welcomed the change wholeheartedly.

One day, Molly came over to deliver fresh body parts as per Sherlock's insistence. She cried and hugged him, but John later found out that she had known about the whole faking-his-death thing, and he couldn't help but brood the rest of the day.

But things only got better and better. Sherlock didn't leave the flat, but he was always up and about, doing his experiments, solving crimes remotely and watching crap telly. He took cases online, now, two and threes that he solved with a simple email reply, or six and sevens that he spent days pouring over. The fact he couldn't exam the crime scenes himself actually added an extra layer of challenge, and Sherlock made it his goal to see each and every one of them to its conclusion.

Once past its initial stage, their relationship slotted into place like it had always been there. They moved in sync with each other like a dance they had rehearsed and everything simply fit.

John had always been an affectionate partner, but that Sherlock was just as affectionate came as a surprise – to both of them. His time in Serbia had shook him to his core, dismantled him and put him back together as someone completely changed.

He was no longer afraid to show what he felt, he didn't keep any words in, nor did he stop himself from reaching out to John. He felt he had been given a second chance, a chance to get it right, and he wasn't going to let it go. They had never been as close as they were now; completely bare to one another, completely invested and honest.

They slept on the same bed every night, arms wrapped around each other, hands running through hair, loving kisses shared between smiles. Sherlock's stomach healed and his newfound ability to maneuver had him often draped over John as the doctor slowly ran his fingers up and down his back.

It never turned into something sexual, and neither of them brought it up; they were both comfortable with things as they were. Sometimes, Sherlock would talk about Serbia – very vaguely, very succinctly. And every time he'd share his experience, John felt like he was being given a precious gift.

\--

The months went by, and when September turned to October and Fall started chilling the air, Sherlock felt he was ready to take on a case. A real case.

John wasn't sure what Mycroft had told Greg exactly, but it seemed that the DI knew not to give Sherlock more than he could chew. The case wasn't easy enough to be patronizing, but it wasn't one that required running around. It also didn't pose the threat of running into any killers since, apparently the killer was already dead; there were two bodies, and the whole point was trying to figure out who had been the victim and who had been the murderer.

It actually turned out to be fairly interesting, and – after almost three years – John wrote a new blog entry: The Mystery of the Mirrored Murder.

To be honest, he was ridiculously thankful for the chance to go outside and actually _do_ something. While Sherlock had his experiments and his remote case-solving, John had spent the last five months holed up in the flat and almost climbing up the walls.

When he had suggested, back in July, that he ought to get back to work, Sherlock had absolutely lost it. It wasn't even that he started sulking or being passive aggressive or doing all of those annoying things he used to do before. He had accepted the idea, understood John's reasoning, and then proceeded to have several panic attacks in the days following the conversation. It wasn't hard to put two and two together.

John let it go and gave the whole thing up as a lost cause. He started finding things to do around the flat, instead. He taught himself how to cook – he was actually rather good at it now – he grew plants under the smiley face graffiti and he jogged every afternoon while Sherlock had tea with Mrs. Hudson. Well, she sat there having tea and talking while he pretended to ignore her and continued doing whatever he'd been doing before she came in.

Sometimes their routine was broken by a visitor, Mycroft or Lestrade or, one time, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. That was one for the history books, John will say, and Sherlock had even introduced him as his partner. They were both invited over for Christmas, even if at the time it had still been five months away.

Come August, Sherlock had actually started leaving the flat with John. He wasn't jogging, of course, but they took strolls around the park a couple times a week and then finished the evening at Angelo's to eat some dinner. The detective joked, on the second time, that it was their date night, but it actually stuck and after that those days were known as such.

So by the time October, and the possibility of an outside case, came along Sherlock had already been leaving the flat to walk with John every other day. He didn't have panic attacks anymore, and he could move gracefully as he always had before.

They got home from solving the Mystery of the Mirrored Murder and they were both laughing and flush-faced. It was wonderful to see Sherlock looking so- carefree again. John couldn't help but grab the detective by the lapels of his Belstaff and bring him in for an enthusiastic kiss.

Sherlock was grinning into the kiss and it was perfect. They stumbled their way inside the flat, leaving their coats behind on the hook, but never quite untangling from each other.

"You were brilliant" John said.

"You say it like it's a recent development" Sherlock drawled, teasing.

"Don't be cocky, you git." The doctor retorted, but it was just as light hearted.

They fell onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and Sherlock discarded his gloves along the way – Mycroft had simply showed up one day and handed him a box containing designer leather gloves; they fit him like they'd been made for him, which granted, they probably had. Every time the detective went out, he'd wear them. And while four of the fingers either didn't move or were empty, no one would notice if they weren't staring fixedly at his hands.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls – and how he had reveled when they had finally grown back to their regular length – and kissed him once again before asking "That was good, wasn't it?"

It was a gentle prod, but Sherlock knew what the question really meant. He wasn't put off by John's concern; he knew how careful his partner was about not mollycoddling him and could appreciate his support.

"It was. It's different when I can actually be there, it's much more fun."

"Grinning about corpses, now what would Mrs. Hudson have to say about that?" John teased, relieved at the sincere answer.

"They're not getting any deader, John"

And then they were giggling and kissing each other again. It was nice, this was. They were used to it by now; they had made out maybe hundreds of times in the past few months. And while John had been careful about letting Sherlock be the one to initiate it at first, he knew he was allowed – welcomed – any time now.

Their position on the sofa was a bit odd; the detective was draped over him, but almost falling off. So Sherlock shifted, angling his head to reach John's mouth better, but when he did so, it was inevitable that John's hardness brushed against his thigh.

The doctor immediately stiffened and he broke their kiss, bucking backwards like he'd just been burned.

The blatant movement obviously didn't go unnoticed and Sherlock dropped his head onto the cushion as though in defeat, a sigh that could have been a huff leaving him.

"Honestly, John, it's not like I don't know it's there" he said matter-of-factly in his best everybody-is-an-idiot voice. He'd felt it before during their make out sessions and, granted, he had never pressed against it so clearly like he had just done, but still.

John's sigh of defeat matched his and the army doctor ran a frustrated hand across his face, the other arm falling to his side. "I know." He half murmured, half bit out. "I just- I meant what I said. I meant what I said and I don't want you to doubt that." He explained; closing his eyes and whishing he could will his erection away. "I try to… keep it out of the way, but I can't exactly… control it." He gestured vaguely downwards, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa.

Sherlock had propped himself up onto his elbow and was looking down at John's face now "I know you meant it." He said it with an earnest and open expression, and then he put his Consulting Pillock face back on and continued with "How could I not, what with how many times you've locked yourself in the bathroom to masturbate the past five months."

John groaned "Oh for christ's sake, you tosser!"

But Sherlock was smiling at him and he knew it was ok.

They stayed in silence for a little bit, and then the detective was hiding his face into the base of John's neck, nuzzling the pillow underneath. John brought a hand up to pat his hair, turning his face to kiss the curls with affection.

"John?" came a mumbled sound from the hidden figure.

"Yes, love?"

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at him "Can I touch you?"

For the first couple of seconds, John frowned the tiniest bit, not understanding the question; they were literally touching from shoulder to feet. When the meaning downed on him he felt his heart skip and his cock twitch at the same time.

He searched the detective's eyes for answers – afraid, so afraid, that Sherlock was only doing this because he thought he owed it to John – but the man simply looked earnest; curious?

He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, trying to find the best words for this. It couldn't sound patronizing, but he couldn't let it go, either.

"You can, always, anything. But only if you want to."

"I want to." Sherlock said; it wasn't a tense, determined voice. It was a light, simple statement of fact.

John nodded and his breathing seemed to grow very loud to his own ears. He watched almost transfixed as Sherlock got off him and sat on the floor by the couch, his feet tucked beneath him.

The long slender hands hovered over the waistband of his trousers - he wasn't wearing any pants, and for a moment he wondered if he should say something about it. But then the detective was pulling his slacks down and John's neglected cock bobbed up, finally free from its confinement. He was so hard and so desperate that he groaned, because even the touch of the cool night air was stimulating.

For a split second that seemed to last an eternity, it felt like Sherlock was just looking at him, unmoving. But then warm, tentative fingers brushed against his naked flesh and John's entire body shuddered. The detective didn't do much at first, just touched him and let his fingertips run up and down John's cock. But eventually the three fingers of his right hand slowly and experimentally wrapped around then length and Sherlock glanced up at him almost as though seeking reassurance.

John tried his best to nod, but his head was just somewhere else at the moment.

Encouraged, Sherlock moved his hand up and down, slow at first but then picking up a pace once John's hips started moving ever so slightly with him. It was mesmerizing to see his army doctor completely flushed and open and wanting.

"Is it good?" he asked, and it was a mix between _Am I doing this right?_ And _What does it feel like?_ Since Sherlock had never experienced it himself.

"It- feels- really good" John gasped out, and it had been _so_ long that he knew he wasn't going to last.

And there it was, not even a couple of seconds later he was biting out a warning of "Sherlock- I'm gonna-" and then he was moaning loudly and coming all over his stomach and his lover's hand.

Out of all the things that could have triggered a bad memory, Sherlock hadn't expected John's moan of completion to have been it. But hearing it sent a shiver down his spine and he couldn't help but flinch, his torso contracting away from an invisible threat.

He didn't exactly connect the moans with a negative thing – when they moaned like that, it meant they were done and they were leaving – but it was something that he had only ever heard in that context. So it was very hard not to be reminded of the hundreds of times he'd heard that same sound before.

His expression must have shown something, because as soon as John recovered from his orgasm, he tensed and sat up on the couch.

"Sherlock?" the soldier prompted, immediately. He also tucked himself away, disregarding the mess on his belly, because it suddenly felt extremely wrong to look so satisfied and debauched.

The voice snapped the detective out of his thoughts, and he looked up into the concerned eyes of his partner.

Seeing John looking so worried about him, with his hair all mussed up and his reddened lips from kissing, and the flushed tint to his cheeks- this was John. This was his John, the man he loved, the man who loved him. He'd made John feel good, and he had been enjoying the experience right until it was interrupted by his dark thoughts.

"I'm okay." he assured "It's just a Pavlovian response."

He could almost see the guilt in John's eyes as the man reached for his hands in repentance. "I'm sorry, love. We don't- you don't have to do that again, I-"

But the detective shook his head. "But I want to, John. _I_ want to." He said very emphatically, because it was true. "I liked it. It felt… nice." A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips and he saw John cheer up the tiniest bit.

He looked down at his hand. Semen was drying on his skin and he really wanted to get up and clean it off-

"Do you- do you want-" John started, clearing his throat "Do you want to try it?" he asked, full of uncertainties, gesturing vaguely towards Sherlock's lap.

But the detective shook his head. He'd thought about it before, very distantly and very vaguely. Sometimes, he would get hard when he was kissing John; he was sure the doctor knew that by now. But at the moment, he had already disconnected himself from the whole thing. If anything, he wanted a shower.

"Why don't you get dinner on, while I take a bath?" he said instead, as he got up to wash his hands on the sink.

John was still looking guilty and pained when he turned back to look at him, but Sherlock promptly crossed the room and took the man's face between his hands. "John. I am fine." He said very pointedly before kissing him briefly.

The doctor sighed against his lips and nodded. "Alright, go on then. I'll heat us some soup." He said, trying to sound more cheerful.

As far as first sexual encounters went, Sherlock was certain things could have gone much worse. Even if John couldn't see it as such, the detective actually felt better after the whole thing.

He spent that night thinking, looking at John's sleeping face, memorizing his features and internalizing how much this man trusted him, loved him. If he told John to jump, he'd just ask how high. His lover was willing to lay himself bare and be completely vulnerable in front of him- it was actually touching.

He kissed his partner's unconscious form and went to sleep with a soft smile on his face.

\--

What John thought had been a one-off, an experiment gone wrong, an adrenaline-fueled error in judgement, actually turned out to be the very shy beginning of something he had never expected they'd share.

A couple of nights after The Incident, they were on their bed and Sherlock pulled away from kissing John to stare at him for at least a whole minute before finally speaking "I want to see you."

The doctor stopped moving and looked at him searchingly. He felt like he was being tested and he hated it.

"Can I watch you?" came the next question, and suddenly the whole thing took a new meaning.

He was as surprised by this question as he had been two nights before when Sherlock asked if he could touch him. Strangely, this one seemed even more unexpected.

"You want to… watch me?" he gestured to vaguely downwards, feeling his half-hard cock gain even more interest in the proceedings.

Sherlock nodded, his expression curious and bordering on hungry.

John laughed a bit nervously "See, this is something even I haven't done before." He said, and it was possibly the best thing he could have said, because Sherlock's face lit up even more.

Clearing his throat a bit, he let his hand slowly travel down his own body and his fingers ghost ever so lightly over his clothed erection.

The way that his detective was staring at him so directly made him shudder and he couldn't bring himself to reach into his pants and take his cock in his hand.

"Just- come here for a second" he said, his voice coming out husky and low.

Sherlock didn't really understand what John wanted him to do until the doctor pulled him close by the shirt and kissed him, slow and sensuous. He didn't stop kissing him, but the detective felt rhythmic movements start and realized that John had started jerking himself off slowly.

He pulled away the tiniest bit so he could look at his partner's flushed face. The doctor looked completely different with his mouth half opened and desire clouding his eyes.

Sherlock looked down and saw John's hand moving inside his trousers, but after another moment John finally pulled himself out completely, stroking himself out in the open for him to see.

Both their breaths were growing rapid, and Sherlock felt himself grow hard in his pants from watching his lover. It was every bit as erotic as he had imagined, and he licked his lip unconsciously.

It was mesmerizing to watch him. His hand would speed up, but then slow down and drag a couple of strokes out painfully slow, then he'd pick up again, bucking his hips. His thumb would reach out to caress the head, grazing ever so slightly over his slit.

"Sher- please" John's voice broke and his eyes were shut, but he had turned his head and Sherlock took it to mean he should kiss him.

John's kiss was filthy, all tongue and biting and Sherlock could feel him huffing out through his nose, whimpering as he picked up the pace with his hand. "'m so close, love." The shorter man told him, his mouth closing in an 'o'.

Sherlock pulled away just in time to look down and see the spurts of come coat John's fingers and stomach; the man's whole body spasming as he climaxed. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.

John seemed to melt afterwards, his hand lazily tracing patterns over the sensitive skin of his spent cock as he tried to even out his breathing again.

"That was perfect." Sherlock murmured and his partner opened heavy eyelids to look up at him, half embarrassed and half expectant.

The detective still felt himself pulsing inside his trousers, but he couldn't bring himself to cross that line. If anything, he was afraid he'd react negatively and spoil this moment for the both of them. No, let them bask in this successful encounter; he didn't want John to end up feeling guilty again.

"I love you, you know that?" John's voice, when it finally came, was almost a whisper. He lifted his clean hand up to tangle in his partner's curls and bring him down for another kiss. "I love you so much, Sherlock."

"I love you too, John. I love you too." The detective smiled, grasping the hand in his own and placing a kiss to the back of it lovingly.

\--

After that first case, Sherlock seemed to stand taller and prouder. His successful attempts at being a detective coupled with his successful attempt at a sexual encounter left him full of confidence.

He would touch John all the time. He'd kiss him without a warning when he took a break from his experiments, but he would also drag John into their bedroom at night and snog him passionately.

He'd often revel in watching John masturbating, but sometimes he'd also brave touching his lover as well.

There were a couple more cases, each riskier than the previous. And when they'd come home from solving it, it was to a fit of giggles, dinner and their one-way version of sex.

Sherlock didn't seem interested in being touched and they would not even take their clothes off at all, but it was something.

It stayed relatively the same until that third case came to an end and Sherlock found himself wanting a bit more. They had been snogging on the narrow sofa, even though they had a perfectly good bed just down the hall, when the detective got off of John and sat on the floor.

It honestly just looked like he was going to get up and pull John into their bedroom, at first. But Sherlock didn't move and then he was placing both his hands on John's knees, his face dangerously close to the man's crotch.

"I think I'm good at it." He said, seemingly out of the blue. But both of them knew exactly what he was talking about, and it was the most conflicting statement John had ever heard.

Part of him was busting out of his trousers, hard as a rock and pulsing at the thought of his lover's mouth on him. The other part didn't want to think about why Sherlock was able to make such a declaration.

When he took too long to answer, the detective took it as acquiescence and slowly started unbuttoning his jeans.

"Do you ever wear pants, John?" he commented light-heartedly, and it did break the tension somewhat, but John still felt as though his heart was going to leap out of him.

"Not usually, no" he breathed out his answer, but Sherlock just hummed in reply. The detective had carefully opened his trousers and was now tugging ever so slightly so John would shift enough to allow him to pull it down.

Finally free, his cock bobbed up, and he was trembling in anticipation.

Like the first time Sherlock had ever touched him, the detective took his time. He looked at first, then brought his fingers up to stroke him a couple of times before finally leaning down and licking experimentally at the head.

John closed his eyes and bit down on his bottom lip, his hands fisting in the couch cushions. And then Sherlock's mouth was engulfing him in tight, wet heat and he went to heaven.

The detective sucked him down expertly, his tongue flattening against the underside of John's cock and then swirling at the top before he went right back down again. His hands were passively, and a bit tensely, by his side, but John didn't think too much of it. He couldn't think much, period.

In one particular hard suck, Sherlock ended up choking himself a bit and he pulled off of John almost in alarm. He felt a bit disoriented, and what not a second ago had seemed like a very intimate act of pleasure he wanted to perform on his partner, now seemed like the duty he'd been forced to repeat several times a day for months. He was going to finish what he started, though.

But when he gathered himself and opened his mouth to take John in again, his lover stopped him, putting his hands on his shoulder softly and making him look up. "Hey. Talk to me? You ok, love?" the concerned voice asked and it was almost ridiculous how John could, well, _deduce_ him like no one else.

He nodded slowly, but he realized how tense his posture was and how tightly he was squeezing his hands shut.

"Come here." His lover called, his voice full of affection for him. And Sherlock mechanically uncurled and rose up from the floor.

John ran his fingers through his hair and kissed him softly on the mouth. "What are you thinking about?" he asked with much more composure than someone who was just having his cock sucked was allowed to have.

"You know what I'm thinking about" the detective couldn't help the frustration that bled into his voice.

John had to use all his willpower not to say _You don't have to do this_. Instead, he kissed his love again and said "Tell me what I can do to help."

Sherlock's misplaced anger deflated a bit, but his resigned frustration was still there.

"I don't know." He sighed, feeling guilty as he saw John was already getting soft.

"Do you want us to take our clothes off?" John offered, as though he had just started reading from a list.

Sherlock shook his head immediately. And it was the first time he realized how much being clothed during these exchanges made him feel good; it made him feel like he was John's equal, even if that made no sense at all.

"Do you want _me_ to take my clothes off?" the shorter man continued.

He pondered on that one, but his gut feeling was that the suggestion felt right. So he nodded slowly.

"Ok," John seemed like he had just caught onto something and he continued with his questions "Do you want us to go to our room?"

When Sherlock thought about their room, the first word that came to mind was _safe_. Then, _intimate_ and _theirs_ , but he also thought about their bed and the other positions it allowed for. Here, in the living room, Sherlock had pretty much no choice but to kneel in front of John if he wanted to suck him off. But on their bed, he could spread the other man down, hover over him and-

"Yes" he answered, licking his lips.

"Alright. Come on" the doctor nodded, getting up off the couch and offering his hand even as he zipped himself back up.

They moved into their room, and John promptly stood by their side table, hand poised over their lamp. "Lights on or off?"

Sherlock wanted to see John's face. He wanted to see it was John while he did it, every step of the way. "On."

And the room was cast into a semi-dark glow, their soft lamp lighting up the room like a fireplace would have.

"Where do you want me?" was the next question, and John hadn't moved from where he was standing yet.

"Your side of the bed." Because it smelled like him.

Promptly, his lover walked over and lay down, slightly propped up on his pillow.

"Do you want to take my clothes off? Or do you want me to do it?"

"You do it". He knew it was absurd, but undressing someone felt like a violent act in his head. He wanted to see John do it himself.

Once his lover's sweater and jeans were off, Sherlock felt the traumatized, wounded animal inside him uncoil. He was dressed and John was not; he was the one who had the upper hand. John was the vulnerable one, not him. He wanted to reprimand himself for thinking it, but it was as instinctual an association as 'fire burns' or 'water is wet'.

He felt himself twitch slightly at the sight of his naked lover spread out in front of him – he'd have never understood physical desire had John not come along, he was sure – and he slowly made his way towards the bed so he could join him.

The way they were positioned now, Sherlock towered over John even as his mouth hovered over the man's half hard cock. He was lying down comfortably in his own bed, propped up on his elbows, instead of kneeling on a hard floor. His own cock was nestled warmly against the mattress, pulsing ever so slightly, making Sherlock rock his hips the tiniest bit as he enjoyed the friction. It was a much better situation.

This time, when he took John into his mouth, the experience was very different.

He could actually concentrate on John's taste, on the smell of his naked skin, on his soft moans. And all he had to do was opened his eyes and look up to see his lover's face contorted in pleasure.

Something was still missing, though, and when he pulled off the man's cock one more time, John opened his eyes in concern again, but Sherlock shook his head. "Your hand" the detective said, and his right hand extended so it lay on John's belly. The army doctor's own fingers finding it and interlacing them together.

Sherlock's left hand sought John's other one, but this time he placed the man's fingers on his hair, before letting them go. Taking the hint, his lover ran his fingers continuously through his curls and the detective smiled against him. "That's perfect. Perfect" he told John, just before taking him in his mouth again.

He put his skills to use and with the feeling of being surrounded by his lover, and having the man's hands in constant contact with his own, petting him lovingly, Sherlock literally couldn't pull himself away from the moment. Perversely, defiantly, he'd even tested, just to see what would happen. He tried for a second to allow himself to be pulled back into Serbia like it'd just happened in the living room, but the amount of contact and the staggering differences in situation did not allow for it. He was stuck in the present and the realization only made him pleasure his lover even more enthusiastically.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, stop!! Stop, stop, I'm gonna come-"John warned desperately, his hand squeezing the detective's as he felt his orgasm building.

The squeeze he received in return made it clear Sherlock'd understood, but the younger man was not pulling off of him.

"Oh god-" he cried as his entire body shook and he spilled himself in spurts into his lover's mouth. His body spasmed a couple of times still, and Sherlock sucked him through his aftershocks, licking him slowly as he came down from it.

John threw an arm over his face, not believing what had just happened. That might have been the best orgasm he had ever had and that was saying something coming from Three Continents Watson. He continued to pet Sherlock's hair even after the man had completely let him go; he couldn't bear to lose to contact

After a bit, the detective moved up on the bed so that they were roughly at eye level with each other and the younger man kissed him softly on the lips before saying "You were brilliant, John" because the doctor had read the situation expertly and known exactly what to do; Sherlock didn't know what he'd done to deserve him.

"I'm brilliant?!" John bit out a raspy laugh "Sherlock, I'm pretty sure that's my line." He told his younger lover very matter-of-factly. "That was- that was amazing." He laughed again, and it reminded Sherlock of when they met and John heard his deductions for the first time.

He couldn't help but feel just as proud as he had then.

"Yeah?" the detective was smiling against him.

"Yeah"

John kissed his curls and nuzzled his neck a little bit, pulling him closer so their legs interlaced together. "I love you." he whispered and kissed him again.

Sherlock threw his still clothed arm over the doctor's chest and the sudden stark contrast made John shift a bit to look at him curiously.

"Do you want me to touch you?" he asked softly, trying to refer back to his previous strategy of getting the detective out of his own head.

Sherlock was quiet for a bit, thinking. He could feel his own half-hard cock pulsing very pleasantly inside his pants, if he ever wanted to be touched by John, it'd have to be during these times.

He still enjoyed the fact that he was clothed whereas John was not; it gave him a sense of control. He also felt much more relaxed now that the other man had already had an orgasm. It felt as though, if he were to stop things half way, it wouldn't be so frustrating for his lover. That knowledge took some of the pressure off of him and made him feel like he was free to be honest without hurting John's feelings.

Slowly, feeling his heart racing, he nodded.

He almost saw John's heart skipping a beat as the man swallowed.

"You tell me to stop, any time, any reason and I will, ok?" the soldier reassured, his eyes serious, but his expression loving as it always was.

Sherlock nodded in understanding, but just as John was lifting his hand towards him, he grasped it in his own, stopping him. "Wait"

Immediately, and as promised, John pulled his hand back and even moved away the slightest bit. He didn't do it out of hurt, either, it was simply a very clear statement that the space between them was Sherlock's to control.

The detective pressed himself entirely, almost comically, against the headboard. And John was confused until he himself was ordered to do the same as Sherlock tugged on the duvet. Then, the man slid underneath it and he followed suit, actually rather glad as it was getting a bit chilly on his naked skin.

"Ok" Sherlock said, then. But before John even moved, he spoke again "Just- don't take my clothes off."

The request was a bit confusing, but John planned to figure out the ambiguity by trial and error. Slowly, so that Sherlock could still change his mind if he wanted to, he slid his hand down his lover's side almost teasingly. Even clothed as he was, the detective shivered under his touch.

They were both lying on their sides, facing each other, and John could see every minute expression the other man made. So it was a sight of the gods when his fingers finally trailed past Sherlock's waistband to trace the outline of his now completely hard cock. The detective honestly shuddered.

Encouraged, John's hand closed a bit more around the length, cupping it through the fabric. He moved for a bit, feeling Sherlock's hips respond to the friction by grinding back, but then he moved his hand back up again so it rested on top of the waist band once more. His index finger very delicately traced over the tiny patch of skin he found there and once again the detective shuddered.

"Can I-" he started, but Sherlock was nodding.

"Yes"

Ok, so when he said _don't take my clothes off_ , he meant it literally. Unzipping his trousers and reaching inside was allowed, then.

He did exactly that, and when his hand finally, finally reached inside Sherlock's pants and wrapped around his cock, the detective gasped against him. It was a very good gasp by the look of it, though. And when the teal eyes opened to look at him, they were almost pitch black from his blown pupils.

Sherlock himself pulled on his trousers a bit so they would ride down just enough that John could have slightly better access.

Their position and the staggering amount of cloth around them weren't terribly conducive to the task, but John had put men back together in the desert with whisky, rags and a prayer – he could make this work.

He kissed his lover lovingly, but also opened his mouth against him, knowing by now that hungry kisses turned the other man on. And then he started working on his cock expertly, his fist moving up and down with a constant rhythm. He hadn't touched another man since his army days, but he could still apply what he knew he liked on himself.

That he did, and Sherlock was soon rocking his hips against him, fucking John's hand in slow thrusts.

"John-" and that was all the warning he got, because then Sherlock was convulsing against him, coming all over his naked skin and the mattress. He had only lasted a couple of minutes, which was more than John could say for his own first time over twenty years ago.

"That's it, love, that's it" he murmured against Sherlock's lips, bumping their noses together and stealing a couple of kisses.

But the consulting detective seemed to be in a world of his own, still thrusting ever so slightly, riding out the rest of it as he buried his face against John's neck.

"That was…" came the mumbled attempt at words and the doctor felt himself chuckle as he kissed his lovers hair.

"Good?" he asked, then. And it was also him making sure his lover was ok.

Sherlock nodded lethargically. "I think I understand what all the fuss is about, now."

John laughed. "Welcome to the club." He said good-heartedly.

As far as John was concerned, things couldn't get better.

\--

\--

\--

When Lestrade first got the call, he wasn't briefed properly on the details. The superintendent had simply sent him off to the scene and he'd been expected to read the whole case file in the car.

The pictures in the file didn't do it justice though.

But then again, brutal rape cases were never easy on the stomach.

"What are we going to do, boss? It's just like the other one." He heard Sally say beside him. And there was a sense of defeat already in the air. It was likely a serial case, the first of which they hadn't solved yet.

He sighed tiredly and rubbed his eyes before looking back at the mangled body of the young woman on the floor.

"We're gonna ask for help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cue Sherlock's theme song playing as the scene fades to black*  
> Haha
> 
> I hope you liked this little story!  
> This is, indeed, the end of it. And I didn't mean for the ending to be a cliffhanger? It's more of an idea of what's going to happen in the sequel (aka, the equivalent of Did you miss me? hah).
> 
> The sequel is also a very short story, and it's almost done. I'll post it soon! So subscribe if you want to be notified of when that's going to happen!  
> Please comment and let me know what you thought! :D Much love!


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